Remuneration
by Cheers
Summary: (Complete!) What affects one investigator very personally may help solve a case for the rest of the team.
1. Chapter 1

Thanks to my beta-readers, Allie and Janet. They both contributed significantly to the overall flow and feel of this project.

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 1  
by Cheers

The strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons Concerto number four, "L'Inverno" in F minor, issued from the stereo speakers and reverberated off the concrete block walls of Gil Grissom's living room. No one was paying attention. Not that the audience didn't want to pay attention. Want to and able to are vastly different things.

The Las Vegas he could see from his windows was lit up this night as it had been every night for decades. The rainbow glow of neon, pulsing as if alive and breathing, radiated up off the desert floor and into the blackness of space itself. Life, human life, with all of its glories and foibles, was in the process of being born, growing, and dying in the midst of the light. Gil Grissom didn't often have the privilege of witnessing the birthing or growing part. As the night shift supervisor of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Force Criminalistics Division, his portion had almost always been to witness the death that life inevitably brought to humanity. What many people didn't understand was that, as the witness, he was still very much alive - and bleeding.

In Grissom's mind, Vivaldi was drowned out by the angered tones of the people - friends and coworkers - who populated his current life:

* * *

"I can't be like you. I'm not a robot. I actually care about these people." 

"You've turned into a really lousy leader. I need you and you're on the sidelines."

"You used to be so cool."

"This is your fault, Gil."

"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."

"You're right. I should be more like you. Alone in my hermetically sealed condo watching Discovery on the big screen and working genius- level crosswords, but no relationships! No chance anything will ever slop into a case. _Right_, I want to be just like _you_."

* * *

It was the job. Gil _knew_ that. He didn't always _feel_ that, though. Was he a lousy leader? Sometimes. Did he often fail? Probably. Was it for a lack of trying? 

He sighed.

The lights below twinkled on. Then, with a suddenness that brought a small, unexpected smile to his face, he remembered her. There was a free and easy spirit about her that reminded him of an innocence he had forgotten existed in the world. Of course, she had no way of knowing how her impetuous and spontaneous gift had warmed him. Turning, Gil looked again at the small handful of wildflowers she had given to him that morning. Little Shelly Danbridge, the eight-year-old granddaughter of Mrs. Danbridge, his neighbor for the past two years, had come to visit her grandmother for the Easter holidays. She had skipped up to Gil as he got out of his car and handed him the flowers she had picked from the lot behind his condominium complex.

"Here," she had told him, smiling broadly.

"For me?" Gil had asked, as surprised as he had been unsure of what to do or say.

"You seemed sad and my gramma always says that flowers are a best thing for a sad heart." She had been so direct, so sure that the tiny blossoms would fix everything. It had taken everything he had not to break into tears on the spot.

"Thank you," he had finally managed to say. He watched her tilt her head as if she was curious if he really meant what he had said to her.

She had abruptly nodded her head and said, "You're very welcome." apparently deciding that he did. With that she had turned and skipped away. He found himself watching her go with an odd longing in his heart. When was the last time he had felt that free and full of the joy of living?

Had he ever felt that way?

The beeper on his belt began to vibrate and he pulled it from its clip to look at the message. He saw that it displayed the cell phone number of Jim Brass. As a captain on the LVMPD, Brass worked very closely with the crime lab. In fact, he had even run the unit three years ago. That was before Holly Gribbs was killed and Grissom was promoted to head of the unit. Sometimes, Gil questioned his decision to take on the responsibility. Now, the job gave him much needed cover, an excuse to bow out of field investigation when his hearing, progressively and unpredictably impaired by the advances of otosclerosis, was giving him problems. How long he could continue to keep the secret of his hearing loss from his superiors or his team was a question that he chose to put off as long as possible. Part of him hoped that circumstances would simply take away from him the decision of what to reveal and when. So far, with a single exception, that had not happened. No one at the crime lab knew he struggled with his hearing, and right now he was able to do his job adequately. How long both those things would remain true was anyone's guess.

Turning his attention back to the number on his beeper, Gil pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial number that corresponded to the number for Jim Brass.

"Brass," the homicide detective's voice said.

"Grissom."

"What, did I interrupt you in the middle of the Parcheesi World Championship or something?"

By the tone in Jim's voice, Gil realized he must have sounded short or cross. He hadn't consciously intended that. Tonight was his night off and he didn't really want to go in to work. However, if there was a need, he would. He always did. And, of course, Jim Brass knew that. "No," Gil said with a half-silent sigh, "I was just thinking. What's up?"

Brass paused on the other end for just a moment but long enough for Gil to know that his friend was probably trying to gauge Gil's mood. "It's your night off, I know, but…"

"Brass!" Gil said, this time with very real exasperation in his voice.

"I've got a problem," Jim began, "and I think you're the perfect guy to help me with it."


	2. Chapter 2

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 2  
by Cheers

The parking lot of the We-Store-It franchise on the corner of N. Eastern and Hincle was filled with the usual circus lights. Several police cruisers and a Rescue Squad truck were parked and their occupants were standing around in small groups talking about what was probably the usual bullshit: who got promoted last, reprimanded last, laid last. Grissom pulled his Tahoe into the lot and parked behind the unmarked sedan he knew belonged to Jim Brass. He didn't have his door all the way open before he saw that Brass was moving toward him.

"Didn't take you long to get here," Jim said as he reached the driver's side door of the SUV.

"No traffic," Gil shrugged as he shut the door and turned to face the detective. Looking past the milling crowd of officers, he nodded toward the stretch of storage units that were housed in three single story buildings that ran parallel to each other and extended back several hundred feet from the north end of the parking lot. "Which unit is it?"

"Seventy-one," Brass told him, following his gaze. "It's down the second row there." Both men turned toward the indicated alley that separated the individual buildings and began to walk toward the unit in question.

"Is there a body inside?" Gil asked, curiosity rousing the investigator in him.

"Don't know," Jim replied. "No one's gotten that far. This was a standard call as far as that goes. The owners filed a lien on the unit after the people who rented the space failed to pay the storage fee for over ninety days. It's standard procedure to have the police present when the unit is opened after a non-paying complaint. The first patrolman on the scene took one look and a whiff and called the Rescue Squad. They say they aren't going near the unit until they know exactly what they're dealing with."

Grissom's brow furrowed. "So why are you here?"

Jim looked at his friend sideways. "I happen to know this geek guy who's really into bugs," he said dryly.

Gil had to grin at that. "Yeah."

Unit 71 was the tenth unit on the east side of the second storage building. Each unit was fronted by an aluminum door that rolled up on a track like an average garage door. The door to this particular unit was already raised about an inch. Gil could smell the weak yet very distinct odor of death. The pavement in front of the door seemed to shimmer slightly in the pale light from the exterior lamp affixed to the top of the building's façade across and two units down from the one in question. Turning on his flashlight, Grissom aimed the beam at the ground and bent down to take a closer look. What met his eye was an unusual sight, but one he immediately understood.

"We'll need a vacuum," Gil said over his shoulder without looking up. He took a few steps along the front of the unit and crouched down to get an estimate of the number of individuals he was seeing. Perhaps three dozen, he estimated. And that was just on the outside of the door. No telling how many there would be on the inside.

"A vacuum?" Brass asked incredulously.

Gil looked up at the detective. Jim had stopped at least five feet away from the door to the storage unit in question. It never ceased to amaze Gil how easily a grown man with courage enough to carry a loaded weapon and put his life in danger every day on the job could be so frightened of the very insects he found so fascinating.

At the look on Grissom's face, Brass knew he had heard right. "You mean an industrial vacuum, right? Not a dustbuster?" There was more than a little wishful thinking in his question.

The sidelong look Gil gave him told Brass his poorly contained revulsion at the creepy crawlies he could see from several feet away did not go unnoticed. Gil replied, "An industrial vacuum will do nicely."

"Mind telling me what those things are?" Jim asked.

"_Pholcidae_," Gil informed him. "Cellar spiders. And there's a lot of them."

"Poisonous?" the detective wanted to know.

"Not really," he said, still trying to look under the edge of the door. "All spiders can bite. The venom of cellar spiders will cause localized pain and swelling but it won't cause the necrosis or ulcerations that other spiders can cause. A vacuum should clear out the ones we can see and any that lie under the door. Once we open the door we'll be able to see what's inside that they find so attractive."

It took Brass several minutes to get the Rescue Squad's vacuum rounded up and brought to the doorway of the storage unit. A Rescue Squad member in full protective gear (the man wasn't so sure the spiders were as harmless as Grissom said they were) ran the vacuum hose along the opened edge of the door several times. That done, everyone stood back and left raising the door the remainder of the way up to Gil.

A flood lamp had been set up just outside the unit and the beam aimed directly at the door. After donning a pair of latex gloves, Gil reached under the door and pulled upwards. The door opened with a creaking sound and rolled up and over the rails that were mounted on the sides and inside ceiling of the storage unit. The flood lamp illuminated the entire interior. Wispy threads of spider web hung down from the edge of the door and minute particles of dust danced in the light's beam.

"Holy Mother of…" a patrolman muttered.

"Looks like the mob hasn't left town after all," Brass said to no one in particular.

What they found was a nearly empty unit with a single overstuffed chair sitting in the center. Seated in the chair was the decomposing body of what, by the suit it was wearing, appeared to be a man. The body was crawling with bugs. A number of flies were swarming about the body as well. It was only a few seconds before the full force of the odor from the corpse wafted out of the unit and struck everyone. Only Grissom seemed immune to the stench.

"Well," Gil remarked, "if not why, we at least know where the spider ate the fly."


	3. Chapter 3

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 3  
by Cheers

Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle stepped out of a Tahoe that was the twin to the vehicle that Gil Grissom had driven to the scene. Glancing at their supervisor's SUV and then back at each other, the only two female CSIs of the night shift team started toward the storage unit that was reported to house a DB.

"Isn't it Grissom's night off?" Sara asked. The sharp brunette who had joined the Las Vegas Criminalistics team on an invitation from Grissom three years before gathered several more than interested looks from the collection of male officers who secured the perimeter of the scene - in this case, the parking lot.

Catherine, who was the next most senior CSI on the night shift besides Grissom and whose blonde good looks garnered their own appreciative looks from the bored officers, simply shrugged. "Workaholic," was all the wisdom she had to offer.

Field kits in hand, the two women moved down the alley that led to Unit 71. Stopping just behind the halogen flood lamp, Catherine placed a restraining hand on Sara's arm. They looked at the scene in the unit. Gil Grissom crouched beside a chair that held the badly decomposed body of what appeared to be a man. Their supervisor was collecting the insect evidence that would provide a timeline for the PMI, or minimal post mortem interval. Grissom was a forensic entomologist of some repute in criminology circles. Watching him take notes and collect specimens was like watching a kid building his first model airplane. There was a singled-minded delight for the work in Grissom's manner that was endearing. Neither of them could think of anything that brought more true contentment to the enigmatic scientist than the puzzle a crime scene provided.

Catherine gave Sara a knowing grin and stepped in front of the light. The interruption of illumination brought Grissom's attention away from the bugs. He looked up at the two new arrivals.

"Hey," Grissom said, standing.

"Hard at it, I see," Catherine replied.

He looked over his shoulder at the body and then back to Catherine. He gave them a half-shrug. "Brass called me when the first officer on the scene noticed spiders under the door."

"Rolling stones and bug experts gather no moss," Sara offered, amused.

"That's right," Grissom said, matter-of-factly.

"So what do we have?" Catherine asked, moving toward the body.

The three CSIs turned back to the interior of the storage unit. "I'm just finishing with the entomological evidence," Grissom informed them.

"Any ID?" Sara asked.

"Nothing on the body."

"First impressions?" Catherine inquired.

Crouching back down at his previous location next to the chair, Grissom returned to the task of collecting and cataloging the evidence from the body. "It appears to be a single gunshot to the face," he told them. "We'll have to wait for the post to be sure."

"Odd choice for a dump site," Sara commented.

"Not for a hit," Catherine offered almost admiringly. "Cap the victim in an out of the way unit, shut and lock the door, and wait for the rental company to serve for non-payment. Not a bad way to dispose of a problem. If I didn't know better, I'd say this had all the earmarks of a mob hit."

Sara nodded. "It does, doesn't it?"

"Old Vegas may not be as dead as previously believed," Gil said.

* * *

She tried to not cry. She really did. It was so hard. He was angry because she couldn't stop crying. But it hurt ... down there. She wasn't sure what was being done to her but it hurt - bad. And that made her cry. And she was scared. No one was supposed to touch you down there. The lady police officer who had come to her school last year said so.

But the hurt was so deep and the tears were so hot and her heart was beating so fast. She wanted her gramma to come and get her. She wanted her mommy and her daddy. She wanted to run away and be gone from this place.

She cried as the pain got even worse, and when she did he hit her again.


	4. Chapter 4

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 4  
by Cheers

Two hours after they had arrived, Catherine and Sara were convinced that nothing and no one had been in the storage unit other than the body for weeks. Grissom had pointed out that a uniform layer of dust had been blown into the unit around the door and covered the floor wall to wall. There were no voids in the dust pattern except where it had been disturbed by the team in its examination of the body. A brief look revealed that the dust even extended under the chair, a brown and yellow plaid fabric recliner that was in the non-reclined position when discovered. The amount of dust under the chair was not as heavy as in the rest of the unit. There was a very good chance that this was the primary crime scene.

David, the assistant coroner, finished loading the body bag clad corpse onto the gurney for transportation back to the morgue. "We're a little backed up tonight after a multiple fatality car accident on I-15. I'll page you guys as soon as the post is scheduled," he informed the criminalists.

"Thank you, David," Grissom said to the younger man as he removed his latex gloves with a snap and dropped them into a plastic bag already labeled for receipt of his used gloves in this investigation. Gil had collected dozens of specimens for use in the entomological analysis. Truth be told, he was looking forward to the project. It had been a while since he had a case like this to work on.

Catherine was finishing her first inspection of the seat and back of the chair since the removal of the body when she looked up at her boss. "Why don't you go home and enjoy the rest of your night off. Sara and I can handle the rest of this."

"I'm fine," Grissom said, reflexively.

Sara stepped up beside Catherine and removed the colored goggles she had been wearing for contrast with the alternate light source. She nodded her agreement with Catherine. "You know what they say. All work and no play..."

"Makes the boss a very grumpy boy," Catherine finished the thought.

Grissom was not by nature a grumpy person but he had been a bit short with everyone lately. He seemed to concentrate so hard at times that it took a bomb to get his attention, and more than one lab technician had complained that he simply ignored them altogether. Grissom had a dedication to the job that surpassed just about everyone - even Sara - but he seemed to be isolating himself of late and Catherine had figured this was a warning sign of something. Just what, she didn't know. But, one thing was certain - Gil Grissom was tired. The dark circles under his eyes and the increasing time spent alone in the lab was evidence, she believed, of that fact. No one could really remember the last time he had taken any serious time off from work.

"I've got to get these specimens back to my office and start the analysis," Gil told the women.

Catherine shook her head. "You need to take your days off as days off," she said firmly. "The bugs will still be there tomorrow when you get in and maybe we'll have something more concrete on an ID by then. You heard what David said - the odds of Doc Robbins getting to the post tonight are slim."

Disappointment at the idea of leaving the investigation at this juncture was clearly written on Grissom's face. "But if he does get to it," he began.

"Then Sara and I will be there," Catherine cut him off. She almost wanted to laugh at his insistence that he be allowed to stay. In some ways, he was very much like a little boy protesting nap time. She held her laughter in check, though. She didn't think he would react very well to that. Catherine took a different tack. "What, don't you trust us?"

That worked. Grissom's expression immediately became apologetic.

"Of course I do," he told her. "But…."

"But nothing," Catherine insisted. "Even Spiderman takes a day off now and then."

That produced the beginnings of a grin from him. "Yeah," Gil retorted, "but can Spiderman do a complete entomological analysis of a crime scene?"

Sara laughed at that. "No, but I bet you can't defy gravity by slinging web either."

"Point taken," Gil said, giving in to a lopsided smile that teased the edges of his mouth.

"Go home and rest," Catherine told him. "If we need you we'll call you."

"You won't forget to feed the maggots," he reminded them both.

"We'll feed them," Sara said.

"Because they'll die and that will hurt our chances…"

"We'll feed them, I swear," Sara promised again. "We have done this before, you know."

Grissom nodded and turned to go.

"A time or two," Sara added.

Gil looked at her with mock exasperation.

"Or three or four," Catherine chimed in.

He threw his hands up. "I get it, I get it."

Picking up his field kit, he headed toward his Tahoe. Before he was completely out of earshot, he heard Catherine and Sara behind him, "Or five. Or six. Or seven." He just shook his head, smiled and kept on going. He did have a good team and he did trust them. It's just that he had always trusted himself more.


	5. Chapter 5

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 5  
by Cheers

When that man's hand covered her mouth she could feel the air going away. She struggled and pushed but he was so strong. And then something was around her throat. She wanted to scream but the world was going away. When darkness fell over her she began to dream of the light and the flowers. Pretty flowers.

Somewhere after the nightmare, her spirit skipped into the light and her body lay limp on the floor. Her heart had stopped beating. Strong hands let go of her small corpse.

What he had hoped would be a fulfilling experience was anything but. Now there was the need to do something with the remains of the child. Only that and then to figure out what had gone wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. There wasn't supposed to be a death.

* * *

It took Grissom longer to get home from the crime scene than it had for him to get to the We-Store-It because he had decided to stop at the grocery store on the way. He had a desire for a Bloody Mary and needed the mix. While there he picked up some fresh fruit and a half-gallon of low fat milk. Pulling into his parking spot in front of his condominium building, he noticed the police cruiser sitting in the visitor's spot and frowned.

He stepped out of the car and pulled his beeper from his belt. There wasn't a waiting message there. He then pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket on the off chance that he hadn't heard it ring. There was no message of a missed call either. Picking up the grocery bag and his briefcase from the front seat, Gil closed the driver's side door with his elbow and headed into the building.

Grissom took the stairs as was his habit. He climbed them two at a time and reached his landing quickly. He hit the release bar on the fire door with his hip and pushed through the heavy metal door at the end of the hallway that led to his front door. He took a few steps toward it before coming up short. A uniformed officer stood with a notepad in hand in front of Mrs. Danbridge's doorway. His neighbor was in tears and talking in an animated fashion to the officer.

Martha Danbridge was a woman in her late fifties. Though not a full decade older than Gil, she seemed to accept her role of grandmother with relish. She didn't bother to dye the gray from her hair, nor did she indulge in the benefits of modern plastic surgery. She was fond of saying that the wrinkles that spread from the corners of her eyes and mouth served as her "battle scars" from life. God had given her a fine family and wonderful husband, taken from her last year by a massive heart attack six months after reaching full retirement. Mrs. Danbridge accepted her station as widow and grandmother and lived a full life as far as Grissom could tell. She was involved with her church and a local bridge club, she volunteered at Desert Palm Hospital and she had even been a volunteer victim last month during the external disaster drill held by the city to provide much needed practice in the event of another mass casualty event like 9/11. She was friendly and warm, talkative but not a busybody. Grissom had always enjoyed her as a neighbor.

The officer asked her a question that Grissom couldn't quite make out. He moved toward the pair.

"No, she never leaves after dark! I won't let her outside that late," Mrs. Danbridge insisted, the high pitch of near hysteria in her voice. She noticed Grissom as she wiped at the tears that fell down her cheeks.

"Oh, Dr. Grissom!" Mrs. Danbridge exclaimed. The officer turned to look at Grissom and nodded to him. Gil could see recognition in his eyes. Most of the police officers who worked in the city knew Grissom, by reputation and name, if nothing else. Gil had been in Vegas for a long time and had worked most of the high profile cases in the last decade.

Gil nodded his greeting to the officer and turned his attention to his distraught neighbor. "Mrs. Danbridge, what's wrong? What's happened?"

"It's Shelly, Dr. Grissom," the older woman informed him, barely containing her panic. "She didn't come in for supper this evening. She went out to pick flowers for the dinner table and never came back. I've looked everywhere for her!"

Gil's mind immediately returned to the small figure with the handful of blossoms he had seen that morning. He swallowed - hard. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was 11:17. He felt an unmistakable fear in the pit of his stomach. There wasn't a good excuse for an eight-year-old girl to be out alone this late at night. Gil had seen far too many small bodies to ignore the myriad of bad possibilities her absence could herald.

"When did you last see her?" Gil asked.

"Oh, hours ago!" she said, huge tears continuing down her face.

Grissom looked at the officer. It was the patrolman's job to get the preliminary statement from Mrs. Danbridge, but he wanted to know if the case had been called in yet. He asked the officer as much.

"Not yet. I was just trying to get the statement from Mrs. Danbridge first. It's standard procedure," the officer said.

Grissom resisted the urge to say to hell with standard procedure. The police had protocols for a reason. Gil knew that better than most. He gave the officer what he hoped was an understanding look. "Call it in now. I'll stay here with Mrs. Danbridge and continue getting a statement."

Though not a police officer, Grissom was used to his authoritative presence bringing about the desired results with the rank and file of the Las Vegas PD. This time was no exception. The patrolman nodded and moved off to place the call to dispatch and Gil turned to his neighbor. "We'll find Shelly, Mrs. Danbridge. Don't worry."

Mrs. Danbridge was grateful for his help. Gil just wished the dread that he felt tugging at his own hope would disappear.


	6. Chapter 6

I want to again offer much deserved thanks to my beta-readers. Allie and Janet, you two rock!

**Warning**: This portion of the story contains graphic material/difficult subject matter.

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 6  
by Cheers

The activity in and out of Mrs. Danbridge's condo entrance brought more attention from other building neighbors. Several of the ladies who lived on the same floor as Grissom and Mrs. Danbridge showed up to lend support to the grief-stricken woman. Other building residents offered to form a search party to look for Shelly. Grissom kept his attention focused on what the police would be able to do and to the details of the statement Mrs. Danbridge had given.

A bag of forgotten groceries sat against the hallway wall while people moved in and out of the Danbridge home. The APB that went out to the entire LVMPD included the details Mrs. Danbridge had provided about what Shelly Danbridge had been wearing that evening, the birthmark she had on her left shoulder, and the last time anyone remembered seeing her, which was approximately five forty-five that evening. That last bit of information was the most problematic for Gil. He had spent a considerable amount of unproductive time this last evening just ruminating pointlessly. Had Mrs. Danbridge come to him earlier, when she had first gone out to look for Shelly, he could have helped with the search immediately after Shelly had gone missing. Now they were starting the investigation into her disappearance six hours after the fact. Six long hours.

* * *

Carl Paulson got the call from dispatch just as he was starting his graveyard shift. Some not-so-fine low standing citizen had called 911 to report that a body had been dumped behind a store in the city. Just which store wasn't specified. Damn. Paulson was not pleased. It wasn't like his caseload wasn't already heavy enough. But he was the new guy in Homicide, and Capt. Brass liked to shake newbies up, see what they're made of. Doing that very thing had gotten an officer killed a few years back and had gotten Brass sent back to the Homicide Division. That was the scuttlebutt anyway.

Paulson's detective shield was shiny new, but that didn't make him a rookie. He had been a keen investigator as a patrolman. Now he had to prove his mettle to a new Division Commander. Brass was a hard-ass. Fine. Carl would jump through the hoops. He just didn't have to like it while he did.

Grabbing his coat, Detective Carl Paulson headed over to dispatch to talk with the 911 operator who had taken the call, listen to the tape of the conversation, and then grab a uniform and try to find the suspected dump site and see what could be seen there. Everything would be done by the book. He wouldn't be shaken. Screw Brass.

* * *

"Have you called Shelly's parents?"

Mrs. Danbridge looked up at Grissom with red, puffy eyes. She had finally been coaxed to sit. Someone had made her some tea and she sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees, both hands wrapped around the warm cup. "I didn't want to upset them needlessly," she said, weakly defending her attempt to put off that unpleasant task. The truth was, Mrs. Danbridge had hoped Shelly would be found quickly and then all she would have to tell her son and daughter-in-law was that her granddaughter had gotten lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood but had been found by the local police and had been given an ice cream cone to top off the story of her adventure.

Gil was empathetic. The call would be difficult at best. Still, Grissom was convinced the parents might be able to help in the investigation. Things he wanted to know about Shelly's habits could be best answered by the parents. Mrs. Danbridge, though a loving grandmother, was not the best source of information about the child.

Crouching down to look at her squarely, Gil said gently but firmly, "I think you should do that now. It may help us to find Shelly more quickly if we talked to them."

Tears welled up in the corners of Mrs. Danbridge's eyes again. She nodded her understanding. Dr. Grissom and the police knew what they were doing. She had to believe that. It was the only way to believe Shelly was going to be all right. Shelly just had to be all right.

* * *

The number of police cars in front of the building where he had found her had grown to four in the past hour or so. Watching the activity seemed soothing. He still wasn't sure exactly what had happened … or why.

The girl had been hot and tight. The young ones always were. That had excited him. It always did. Somehow the excitement of anticipation had become a horrid reality.

He closed his eyes to shut out the image of the dead girl. It didn't help.

His intention had never been to kill her. What he was going to do was just scare her. She wouldn't tell anyone if she was frightened enough. The last one hadn't told.

The last one hadn't cried so loudly, either. This one cried. No matter how angry he got, she still kept crying.

That was it - the crying. It had made him mad. He always lost control when he was mad. Somehow, in the heat of taking her and his increasing anger, the excitement had vanished. Instead of the heady release he had planned on, he had lost complete control of his temper and now the child was dead.

Next time he would use a gag. If he couldn't hear the crying he wouldn't lose his temper. Control was the key. He would find the release he sought only if he remained in control.

Another police cruiser arrived at the entrance to the condominiums across the street. He watched as a plain-clothes officer stepped out of the car and went into the building. The cruiser drove away.


	7. Chapter 7

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 7  
by Cheers

The Break Room at CSI was empty except for a single individual. Warrick Brown, a CSI level three at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, sipped his coffee and read the sports section of the daily paper. Michael Jordan was retiring. Again. Third time's a charm, Warrick thought, smirking and half amused at the irony of this particular retirement. Each of the last two Jordan exits involved heavy betting on the outcome of the last game, the number of minutes Jordan would spend in the game, the points he would post, the boards he would make, the fouls he would draw…. This go 'round, Warrick had no bets out because betting had been nothing but trouble and Jordan had more problems than pleasure going into the final game.

Damned if they both weren't getting a little long in the tooth for their individual problem issues. They were two black men with real talent. But talent doesn't always lead you in the right direction. Jordan was much better off in the front office of the Wizards and Warrick was much better off anywhere but a casino or sports book. It was like the lyrics to the Robbie Robertson song:

Oh nothing is forgotten

Only left behind

Wherever I am

She leads me down

Warrick had a problem with gambling, Jordan had difficulty leaving the basketball court. They both needed to steer clear. Sometimes it just wasn't that easy.

"So are you going to do any work tonight?"

Looking up from the newspaper, Warrick spotted Catherine, who had entered the Break Room and headed for the coffee machine. "You think this isn't work?" he challenged.

Catherine finished pouring herself a cup of coffee and walked over to the table where Warrick was seated. "Sports page. If you were a bookie, I'd say yes, but since you work in a crime lab I'm thinking you're just full of it."

Dropping the paper on the table, Warrick placed a hand over his heart and a half-wounded expression on his face. "Oh, I'm hurt!"

Sara wandered in just in time to overhear the last portion of the conversation. "No you're not," she said grinning. "You're a slacker."

Catherine gave Sara a conspirator's smile. Sara headed for some much-needed coffee as well.

"What? You're gonna shoot at me now, too?" Warrick continued to protest.

"If the target fits," Catherine quipped.

"Man, you two are brutal," Warrick said, dropping his hand and shaking his head. "When is Grissom back on shift?"

"Ouch!" Sara said, stepping up to the table, coffee mug in hand. "Was that a shot at our fearless second-in-command here?" she asked, glancing toward Catherine.

"Nah, man," Warrick replied. "With Nick out on a call and Grissom off tonight I'm just trying to even out the odds."

"Even with all three of you guys here, the odds wouldn't be even," Sara said, only half joking.

"You got that right," Catherine added before turning to business. "So, Nicky's out on a call?"

Warrick nodded. "Yeah, call came in about fifteen minutes ago. Something about a possible DB behind a grocery store in town. Nick was up for next call so he headed out." Warrick stood up and grabbed his coffee cup to head back for a second helping. He gestured in the general direction of Grissom's office with the cup before adding, "See, Gris would have checked his messages and known that if he had been here."

Catherine gave him a dangerous grin, "Now I don't need to read that message 'cause I asked you."

Guessing that he might be treading close to the line, Warrick decided to change the subject. "Right," he said. "So what have you two been up to out there?"

"Your new assignment," Catherine told him.

* * *

Nick Stokes walked up to the scene with anticipation. Grissom had promised him he could go solo on the next DB case. When this call came in, Nick jumped at the chance to get out to the crime scene. Warrick had to finish cataloguing the evidence in the last negligent homicide case they had investigated. That meant Nick was up for the next call. He had wanted a DB, not because suspicious circumstance deaths were more interesting cases to work, but because he felt he had something to prove and someone to prove it to.

Nick was a CSI level three, just like Warrick. He had been a level three longer, as a matter of fact. Grissom had felt that Nick was not ready to be on his own with some investigations. When Nick was honest with himself, he understood why Grissom could feel that way. Nick wasn't the genius that Grissom was. The job didn't come as naturally to Nick as it did his boss. But Nick had game and he was learning, rapidly. He wanted to be the best, and that drive pushed him to grow. Maybe that was what Grissom had been after - getting Nick Stokes stoked up enough to want to grow, to develop as an investigator. Sometimes a swift kick in the pants wasn't a bad thing.

The body was wrapped in a large dark green trash bag. The yellow ties of the bag lay pulled apart at one end and two small feet could be seen protruding from the top of the bag. One of the feet still wore a floral patterned canvas shoe. The other was clad only in a dirty pink sock. This DB was a little girl. Nick took a deep breath. Damn.

"Who's in charge of the scene?" Nick asked the officers who had secured the crime scene.

"I am," a brown-suited detective said, stepping up to face the CSI. "Carl Paulson." He offered his hand to the newcomer.

"Nick Stokes, Criminalistics." Nick shook the detective's hand. "Want to tell me what we have here?"


	8. Chapter 8

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 8  
by Cheers

"911 Dispatch received a call at 23:03 stating that there was a dead body behind a store in town. The call was made from a payphone located in front of this grocery store. I grabbed a uniform and we began a search of the area here." Carl Paulson pointed with his chin to indicate the alleyway behind the Albertson's where they presently stood. "This garbage bag was lying right there. I opened the end to check the contents and a foot dropped out. I looked inside and found a hand, felt for a pulse. Then I called forensics."

"Did you glove up?" Nick asked, making good eye contact with the detective. The forensic nightmare of a contaminated crime scene, especially when children were involved, was something Nick really didn't want to have to deal with.

"Followed protocol to the letter," Paulson insisted.

Placing his hands on his hips and glancing back at the body, Nick nodded to acknowledge the detective's assertion. "Did anyone else touch anything?"

"No," Paulson said, a little peeved at the continued grilling by the criminalist. "As I said, protocol was followed to the letter."

"Hey, man. You know I have to ask." Nick gave Detective Paulson an easy grin. "You're new in Homicide, aren't you?"

Paulson nodded.

"Yeah, I know how that can be. Don't sweat it." Nick said, trying to use his easy going Texas good ol'-boy demeanor to smooth the road with the new detective.

Paulson wasn't appeased much. "Yeah, well, I get enough crap from my Commanding."

"Who, Brass?" Nick asked, still trying to soothe the detective.

The detective gave the CSI a reassessing look. "You know him?"

"Oh yeah," Nick said knowingly. "He used to be _my_ boss."

With the detective's ruffled feathers apparently smoothed, Nick returned his attention to the body. Setting up halogen flood lamps on the asphalt near the body helped him see to work. Donning latex gloves, he started by photographing the entire scene, taking several locator shots before moving to the close-ups. The body lay half on, half off the asphalt drive that ran along the back of the store's rear façade. The drive provided delivery trucks with access to twin loading docks at the back receiving entrance to the building. The outer margin of asphalt gave way to a rough dirt and gravel mixture that ran out for about twenty feet or so to a chain link fence edging the store's property line all along the back perimeter of the large commercial lot. Fresh tire treads were clearly noticeable in the dirt within three feet of the body. There was what looked like short drag marks that seemed to coincide with the location of the victim's right shoulder. It looked like someone drove up to this spot, pulled the body out of the vehicle and dragged it the short distance to its current location.

The mystery was why the person or persons involved with dumping the body here hadn't used the dumpsters located only twenty feet away. If they had, the tire treads wouldn't be clearly visible. Luck, or the perpetrator's stupidity, was on Nick's side at the moment. He had photographed the tire tracks and the drag marks and was making a mental note to cast the tread impressions when the detective and a uniformed officer approached him.

"Mr. Stokes?" Paulson said.

"It's Nick."

Paulson nodded. "Okay. Nick, Officer Mickelson here has some interesting information."

"What's up?" Nick asked the uniform.

Officer Mickelson consulted his notebook. "There was an APB put out about half an hour ago involving an eight-year-old girl who is missing from a condominium complex two miles from here. Blonde, four feet tall, forty-five pounds, dime-sized birthmark on the left shoulder. The bulletin says she was last seen in a pink and white dress with pink socks and tennis shoes with flowers on them."

All three men looked at the garbage bag that enshrouded the dead child who matched the description to a T'. No one spoke for a moment.

Finally, Nick asked quietly, "Do we have a name?"

Mickelson swallowed hard before answering, "Shelley Danbridge."

* * *

"Grissom?"

Gil turned to the officer who had called his name. He had been trying to listen to the reports coming in over the police band radio he had acquired from one of the uniforms at the apartment. A DB had been reported behind the grocery store he had just been at an hour before. It was a child.

"There's a call for you, sir," the officer said, handing a cell phone to the criminalist.

"Thank you," Gil told the officer, who moved away to give him some privacy. Gil turned his back and spoke into the phone, "Grissom."

"Gris, it's Nick."

"Nick?" Gil's brows furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"I heard the APB that was put out is about a neighbor of yours," Nick's voice told him. "The officer there told me you were with the family."

"That's right." Gil tried to keep his voice neutral. He looked over to see that Mrs. Danbridge was watching him carefully, hope clearly written on her face. If Nick was calling about the APB that could only mean one thing, a DB he had been sent to investigate matched Shelly's description. Until he was certain that the body Nick was dealing with was the missing girl, Gil didn't want to let Mrs. Danbridge know.

Nick apparently picked up on his hesitation because his voice said, "I understand you probably can't talk where you are. The description matches a DB I pulled at the Albertson's on Ash. I thought there might be a chance for a positive identification so I called the officer issuing the APB."

Carefully pulling a mask of neutrality over his features, Gil said, "That's a good idea. I'll be right there."

"I'll be here."

Gil turned the phone off and went to give it back to the officer who had supplied it to him. He informed the officer of his intent to check out the DB at the grocery store before moving back to speak with Mrs. Danbridge.

"Have they found her? Is she okay?" Mrs. Danbridge asked anxiously as Gil approached.

Gil sat down on the couch beside his neighbor. "I don't know," he said gently. "I think this may be a lead but I won't know until I get more information."

"But where is she?" Mrs. Danbridge insisted, nervously reaching out and taking hold of Grissom's hand.

Gil looked at the hands that clutched his. Besides talking with Shelly's parents and assuring them that everything possible was being done, this was the hardest thing he had had to do so far tonight.

He glanced back to Mrs. Danbridge's face … and lied. "I don't know yet," he told her softly. "I'm going to go and consult with a friend of mine in the department. He may be able to help us find Shelly."

"Is he as good as you?" she wanted to know.

Gil gave her his kindest smile. "He's as good as they come."

Mrs. Danbridge seemed to relax a little at his reassurance.

"As soon as I know anything at all I'll tell you," he continued. "I promise."

Rising, Gil left his building to head to a crime scene for the second time on his night off. Only this time he knew what he was going to find. And it was breaking his heart.


	9. Chapter 9

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 9  
by Cheers

The recliner from the We-Store-It unit arrived at CSI and was placed in a clean portion of the building's evidence garage. Warrick and Sara approached the chair gloved and ready to find the secrets the piece of furniture would yield.

Several larvae could be seen crawling over the interior surfaces of the chair. Removing the body had done little to decrease the stench. Sara had grown used to the smells of death, but the added odor of the insect-ridden fabric was slightly nauseating. Nevertheless, she collected all the remaining larvae and labeled the specimens for Grissom.

"Gris will love those," Warrick said, nodding to the evidence jars.

Sara smiled. "More than John, Paul, George, _and_ Ringo put together."

Warrick set to work tape-lifting any loose hairs and fibers. These he labeled for processing in Trace and DNA. Sara made another pass with the ALS to make sure nothing obvious was missed. They took samples for comparison of the fabric fibers that had been saturated with fluids from decomposition as well as fibers from the back of the chair.

After Warrick cut the lights, Sara sprayed luminol evenly over the surface of the chair to get a clear picture of the blood stain pattern. This pattern was primarily located along the right edge of the front of the recliner back and moved down into the right inner armrest and the right inner seat cushion. No blood had been found on the concrete floor of the storage unit under the chair, so the padding of the recliner and the victim's clothing had absorbed all the blood the victim lost.

* * *

Jim Brass had spent the past few hours waiting for the warrant to come through for all the rental documents on Unit 71 and then running the information he got from those documents. Not surprisingly, the name on the rental agreement came up empty. The Alan Smythe who signed the contract did not exist in any database the department searched. The home and billing address on the contract were dead ends as well. Even if there were an Olivia Boulevard in Las Vegas, the 12800 block west would put any structure there in the middle of the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.

The first month's rent was paid in cash, and the manager had received no further payments on the unit. There was no way to trace the renter with a money trail. There was no video surveillance system at the We-Store-It office nor around the storage buildings. And, of course, the manager could remember few specifics about the person who signed the contract - a Caucasian man, light hair, medium height and weight, clean and neat, business suit. That ruled out females, persons of color, and the homeless. Great, just great.

That left the wait for an identification of the victim before the investigation could go much further. With Grissom and his merry band of CSIs on the case, the evidence would probably yield much more helpful information than the rental contract had.

* * *

The quiet inside the vehicle was pronounced. Not even the drone of the SUV's engine could overcome the silence. Gil Grissom concentrated on the road. The supermarket he had just visited earlier in the night was not a full three miles from his condominium complex. He could get there blindfolded. He could get there, but he couldn't keep a killer from dumping the body of a helpless little girl.

Pulling into the parking lot, he saw the telltale red and blue flashes of light that put the emergency vehicles behind the building. Grissom steered around and headed to the back of the supermarket.

The slamming of a vehicle door brought Nick's attention away from the tire treads. He had gathered all the items he needed to cast the treads and was preparing to do so when he looked up. One look at his boss's face and Nick instantly knew that this identification wasn't going to be routine.

Flood lights created artificial day around a dark garbage bag that lay on the ground. Two tiny feet told a story of the tragic loss of young life. Gil could feel his heart was pounding faster than normal. He kept his breathing steady and put on the pair of latex gloves he had placed in his coat pocket. Nick stood next to the body and was waiting for him. The eerie quiet continued. Gil was certain someone was speaking but he didn't know who or what was being said. He found he couldn't take his eyes off the small feet, one of which was without a shoe. All he could hear was a dull hum. Perhaps there was mercy in that.

Nick lifted the edge of the bag that held the body and Gil crouched to look inside. The little girl lay on her back. Her skin was pale and her clothes were twisted around her slight frame. Gil saw all of that with a momentary glance before looking at her face … her lifeless face.

Closing his eyes tight to shut out the image of Shelly's body, Gil dropped his head and exhaled. Unconsciously he had been holding his breath. Swallowing against the rising rage, Gil turned away and stood. With what felt like a thunderous crash, the sounds of the world that had witnessed Shelly's death flooded back in on him. The squawk of police radios, the thrumming of traffic near and distant, the low voices of officers whispering about what they must now know was a positive identification, and the soft voice of Nick asking him if he was all right.

Sure, Grissom was all right. His heart still beat and he could feel the air burn as he took in a deep breath. He was still alive and Shelly Danbridge wasn't. The patent lack of fairness about both those facts felt more like a slap in the face than anything else. A nod was all he could give Nick.

It would be several minutes before he could say a word and several more before he found the will to unclench his fists.


	10. Chapter 10

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 10  
by Cheers

Detective Paulson drove to the condominium complex where the victim, now known to be the missing Danbridge child, had been staying with her grandmother. Gil Grissom had arrived only moments before. Paulson could see the forensic scientist step through the front entry doors headed to the home of a grandmother who would very soon be in the full throes of grief. Grissom had requested that he be the one to inform the grandmother. Paulson had no quarrels with that. He did have issues with Grissom, though.

The death of a child was always hard to deal with, and investigating the murder of a minor was no easier. Even the most hardened police officer could find their veil of professionalism slip when it came to children. Paulson supposed it was no different for the crime scene investigators. Although Grissom had not raised his voice, everyone present when he identified the victim could feel his anger and outrage. The clenched fists of the legendary forensic investigator did not go unnoticed by the young detective. True to his reputation, the night shift CSI supervisor was direct and thorough. He had asked about the discovery of the body, the securing of the crime scene, the preliminary findings Nick Stokes had obtained, and what the witnesses in the market had to offer.

It was Paulson and the uniform he had brought with him who had discovered the body. It wasn't hard to spot the garbage bag lying on the ground outside of the dumpsters. It was also Paulson who had done the initial interviews with the supermarket's shift manager and the other employees working during the timeframe in which the body was probably dumped. Carl believed the person who placed the 911 call was the same person who left the corpse at the Albertson's and was, in all likelihood, the perpetrator. No one who worked at the market had seen anything. No one saw a vehicle drive behind the building. No one saw anyone use the payphone in front of the market. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, have no hassles.

Paulson had shared everything he knew with Grissom. The CSI supervisor listened patiently and then thanked Carl for his efforts. He then proceeded to piss Carl off by questioning the manager himself, asking the identical questions Carl had asked and getting the same answers. Grissom walked the crime scene as well, looking at the trash bag-clad body from every angle before the coroner's office was allowed to take the body away. He then examined the tire treads and the drag marks. He spoke quietly but with authority. And when the circus began to arrive, he ignored them completely, leaving the task of fording the shark-infested waters of the media to Paulson and other members of the police force.

Grissom gave instructions to Stokes about some crime scene procedures and more instructions to the coroner's assistant about tagging the body for special processing. Both men took the instructions in stride. So, Carl thought, the followers of the Great Grissom were used to his taking control. But Carl wasn't one of Grissom's minions, he was the detective in charge of this investigation - not that Grissom seemed to notice. Paulson intended to stay in charge.

* * *

It was well after 1:00 am. All suggestions that she try to get some rest were rebuffed. Mrs. Danbridge had no intention of doing any such thing until she found her granddaughter. A hush fell over the room as soon as the front door opened. The neighbors who had volunteered to stay with Mrs. Danbridge until the police had something to report had already received the first of many calls from the media requesting interviews with the worried grandmother of Las Vegas' most recent missing child.

Mrs. Danbridge stiffened with anticipation as soon as she saw Dr. Grissom enter her living room. His face was unreadable. That could only mean one thing. If there had been any good news, she would be able to see it. The last shred of hope she had to cling to was the fact that there was no news. Her neighbor's strides were measured, steady, purposeful. He must know something. She began to cry. Oh God, she thought, he knows what happened to Shelly.

Gil watched new tears begin to fall down Mrs. Danbridge's face. Each tear seem to tear at his resolve to remain distanced. An investigator could not afford to get emotionally involved. He had preached this canon often enough. The case has no face. Not this case. Not this victim. Not this grieving family. They had faces and names and God dammit all if it wasn't ripping him up on the inside. He crossed the room to sit beside his neighbor.

The CSI and the grandmother looked at each other. She knew that he had bad news and he knew that he had to find a way to tell her. "I'm sorry," Gil managed in a heavy whisper. The words felt hollow.

Placing her head in her hands, Martha Danbridge tried to force out the world. "Oh God ... no." Her voice, filled with pain and disbelief, barely made it past her hands. Her shoulders began to quake as the sobs racked her diminutive frame. She felt strong and sure arms envelop her and collapsed into them, giving herself over to her grief.

Gil Grissom held her with tenderness. Laying his cheek on the top of her hair, he let a single tear fall free from his filled eyes. This should not be happening. This woman should not have to go through another loss again so soon, so tragically. This was not fair. Someone would pay for what had happened to Shelly Danbridge. And that someone was going to have to face him very, very soon.


	11. Chapter 11

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 11  
by Cheers

Nick had finished taking the cast of the tire tread. He had also taken another entire sequence of photos of the drag marks under direct light with a demarcation ruler in frame as Grissom had suggested. He then gave special attention to the contents of the four dumpsters behind the market on the remote chance that the perpetrator had thrown away other evidence in one or more of these before departing the scene. He was just finishing up with a search of the last one when he heard Catherine's voice.

"Is this the first or the last one you've searched?" the senior CSI asked.

"Hey, Cath," Nick said as he placed a foot on the lip of the dumpster and jumped down to the pavement in front of her. He brushed his gloved hands down the front of his blue overalls. "That's the last one."

"Anything?"

"Nada," he told her. Nick had called to inform Catherine of the case's progress and of his concerns about Grissom. Nick could never before remember seeing the expression that had crossed his boss's face when he looked at the body. There was something almost … chilling in it. He took the conversation in that direction. "Have you seen Gris?"

Catherine shook her head. "Not yet. I'm headed there now." She looked toward the flood lights at the edge of the pavement. "Do you need help finishing here?"

Following her gaze, Nick shook his head. "I've got to fingerprint the payphones out front is all. After that, I'll get what I have back to the lab. We'll have to wait for the bag and clothes to come back from the morgue before processing those."

She nodded. "Was it bad?"

Both of them knew she was asking about both the condition of the little girl and Grissom's reaction to the identification.

"Kids are always the toughest," Nick said quietly. "I don't think I've ever seen him that angry before."

Catherine looked back at Nick. "Yeah," she sighed. "I'll see you back at the lab when you're through here. Okay?"

Nick knew that the work on this case was only just beginning. The analysis of the evidence collected would be the hard part. Still, he figured he had the lighter duty. After they parted, Nick watched Catherine get into the Tahoe and drive away. She was heading to talk to the grandmother of the murdered child, collect personal items the child owned for comparison purposes, and see Grissom - by far the more difficult aspect of the investigation at the moment.

* * *

Detective Carl Paulson spotted the bag of groceries in the hallway outside the Danbridge condominium as soon as he got off the elevator. The plastic bag had the Albertson's logo on it. The officer outside the door to the grandmother's home informed him that the groceries had been left there by Grissom several hours before. No one had thought to do anything with them, opting to simply keep an eye on them until the owner reclaimed them and took them into his own home.

Using his pen, Paulson inspected the contents of the bag and found what he was looking for - a receipt. Using his handkerchief, Paulson picked up the receipt and noted the time and date stamp. It was dated the evening before at 11:01 pm. Two minutes before the call was made to 911 dispatch. The store address matched the location they had both just been at. Grissom was at the same market at virtually the same time the call had been placed. Funny he hadn't mentioned that. And not funny ha ha.

Placing the receipt into an envelope and dropping it into his pocket, Paulson turned to the officer at the door again. "Officer …" Carl looked at the uniform's name tag, "Pampling?"

"Yes, sir," Pampling responded to the detective.

Paulson nodded. "I'm the detective in charge of this case, and I need you to do me a favor."

* * *

Grissom had stayed with Martha Danbridge until she had calmed down enough to listen to him more rationally. Shelly's parents had been called by Detective Paulson and told the horrifying news. They would be taking the next flight to Vegas from Ohio. There wasn't anything Mrs. Danbridge could do at this time. The crime lab would be sending someone to collect Shelly's hairbrush, toothbrush, and a few items of clothing so that samples for comparison could be obtained. A full statement had been given to the police. What Mrs. Danbridge needed to do now was rest. The day was going to be long and trying. She had to be a mother to her son and daughter-in-law when they arrived. After some reassurances that one of her other neighbors would stay with her, Mrs. Danbridge had finally gone in to her bedroom to lie down.

An officer approached Grissom while he was speaking with Carl Paulson. Gil had left his groceries in the hallway and the press would be arriving very soon. The officer asked Grissom if he wouldn't mind taking them into his house. When Paulson had asked if they could continue their conversation about the case while Grissom did this, it never occurred to Gil to say no. Carl didn't mind using his newness to the Homicide detail as an excuse to ask the CSI supervisor questions. Those questions would get him access to Grissom's home and a cursory look around the residence.

Picking up the bag from the hallway, Gil unlocked his front door and walked through, holding it open once inside to allow the young detective to enter behind him. Paulson walked into Grissom's living room while Gil headed into the kitchen to put the groceries away.

Glancing around the living room, Paulson found a small bundle of wildflowers bound with a rubber band lying on a side table. A closer look revealed that there were blonde hairs trapped by the rubber band and mixed in with the stems of the flowers. The detective looked up and watched Grissom putting his groceries away.

"You like flowers, Mr. Grissom?" Paulson asked the CSI.

Turning, Gil looked at the detective. He was sure the younger man had spoken but he hadn't clearly heard what was said. "I'm sorry?"

Evasive, Paulson thought. He repeated his question. "You like flowers?"

Gil realized Paulson had found the flowers Shelly had given him the last time he had seen her alive. Instantly a lump formed in his throat again. "They were a gift," he said simply, desiring to leave it at that.

"From Shelly Danbridge?" Paulson inquired, not taking the hint in Grissom's tone.

Grissom gave the detective a hard look. "Yes."

Putting his hands in his pockets and nodding, Paulson made a show of examining the flowers again. "These look like they were picked pretty recently," he mused aloud.

Now Grissom was moving toward the detective. He hadn't remembered the flowers were there until Paulson mentioned them. Gil wasn't certain but he could swear that there was an undertone of accusation in the detective's voice.

When Grissom didn't comment, Paulson realized he had hit very close to the mark. He had one more question for the criminalist. "Do you sometimes use large plastic trash bags to collect evidence, Mr. Grissom?"


	12. Chapter 12

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 12  
by Cheers

Sleep wouldn't come to him. The event was too recent. He chose the dark instead of turning on a light. With a bottle of Jim Beam in his hand and the lights of Vegas blinking outside his window, he stood staring as the minutes ticked past.

The image of the dead girl floated in front of him. He could feel himself get excited as he remembered his encounter with her. His groin ached with his desire. It could take days or weeks to find another child who made him feel this way.

The burn of the whiskey as he drank did nothing to cool the fire of his desire to experience the rush of taking a young girl again. He would have to do something to feed that fire. He would have to do something soon.

* * *

Warrick looked at the fiber taken from the back of the recliner under the comparison microscope. The dye in the fiber was faded to varying degrees along the fiber's length, but he was reasonably sure he would be able to identify the original color. With the furniture manufacturer's mark and the recliner mechanism, Sara had been able to narrow the type of recliner to the Burnham Company. She had also discovered that the reclining mechanism in the chair had been discontinued four years before. Their only hope of trying to trace the chair was in identifying the original color of the fabric and comparing that information with the known fabrics shipped by the manufacturer to the Las Vegas area.

Of course, all of that assumed the chair was sold by a local retailer. The chair could be one of the thousands transported to Vegas by the many families that moved into the region each year. Sometimes, working in the crime lab of the fastest growing metropolitan area in the nation bit the big one.

* * *

Gil stood dumbfounded, staring at the detective. He was certain he had heard him correctly this time. This guy actually believed that Gil could be responsible for the horrific death of Shelly Danbridge. The thought sickened the CSI in ways he hadn't thought possible for a long, long time.

"You didn't just say what I think you said," Gil said, still not sure exactly how to respond to the barely cloaked accusation.

Carl Paulson looked squarely in the face of the forensic scientist. "Can you account for your whereabouts since the disappearance of the victim?"

Gil cocked his head to one side, still trying to wrap his brain around what he was hearing. "You believe I'm your perpetrator?"

Paulson gave a slight shrug. "What I think is that you were at the market when the 911 call was made. That you've had recent contact with the victim as evidenced by the flowers here on your table, and if you can't account for all of your time since the girl went missing then I think we have a problem on our hands."

The CSI was nonplussed. "How do you know when I was at the market?"

"The receipt in your bag of groceries," the detective informed him calmly.

Gil thought about that a moment. He nodded as he began to understand. Of course, the patrolman who asked Gil to bring his groceries into the house had done so at the request of the detective. Since the bag was in the hallway it was considered to be in plain sight and the detective only had to look for the receipt. Circumstantially, Gil looked guilty as hell. He had been at home for at least two hours after Shelly had gone missing. He had been at the same market the body was dumped at about the same time the phone call to 911 was made. He had proof, right in the center of his own living room, that he and Shelly had had casual contact very recently. He had means and opportunity. Motive wasn't even at question for the detective. It didn't have to be.

"You're wasting your time, detective," Gil told Paulson.

"But it's my time to waste," the younger man said deliberately. "Isn't it?"

A knock on Grissom's front door caught both men's attention. Before Gil could begin to move toward it, the front door opened and Catherine poked her head in. "Grissom?"

"Catherine," Gil replied almost curtly.

Moving around the door and into the entryway, Catherine allowed the door to swing shut behind her. The tension in the air of Gil's living room was so thick she could cut it with a knife.

"Are you Detective Paulson?" she asked the younger man.

"I am," Paulson affirmed.

Catherine pointed her thumb back over her shoulder. "The officer next door told me I could find you two in here." She looked from Grissom to the detective and back at her friend again. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

Gil looked back at Detective Paulson. "We have a new problem."

"At least," Paulson told them both, "in that we agree."

* * *

Arriving at the crime lab, Nick deposited all the evidence bags he had carried in with him on a table. He would log in all the evidence immediately and then begin to prioritize each item for analysis. He wanted to be well through this process when Grissom or Catherine returned. He had a game plan already mapped out for the case. He would begin by getting someone to help dry out the plaster mold of the tire treads and then get the search going with the computer database. The prints he lifted from the payphones would go to Jacqui in the Fingerprint Lab right away. He would then use the photos he had taken at the crime scene to create a map of the dump site. As soon as the coroner released the victim's clothing and the garbage bag, he could log these items into evidence as well and begin to analyze anything he found on them.

He hoped the trash bag would reveal fingerprints. Nick was certain there would be fibers and hairs on the little girl's clothes. Hopefully, these tiny pieces of evidence would begin to lead him in the direction of the killer. If Grissom was right, and he usually was, a sexual predator like the person responsible for Shelly Danbridge's senseless death wouldn't stop with just one victim. He would most likely attempt to do this again, if he hadn't already done it before. They were working against the clock. And for this particular perpetrator they had no earthly idea what time it was or when the alarm would go off again.


	13. Chapter 13

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 13  
by Cheers

Jim Brass made the call to Sheriff Brian Mobley just after 3 am. The Sheriff had been awakened by the news of a murdered child found not two miles from Gil Grissom's home and within hours of the child's disappearance. Nothing did more damage to the political aspirations of the Clark County Sheriff than the publicity nightmare of a child abduction and murder, except perhaps the suspicion of guilt in that murder of one of his most influential employees. Once the Sheriff heard that Grissom might be a suspect, he wanted to know just what the hell was going on.

So did Brass. He pulled into the parking lot of Grissom's condominium complex and got out of his car to head for the back of the CSI supervisor's department-assigned SUV, which was now open and being searched by two uniforms and Paulson. Catherine Willows was on hand as well. By the look on Catherine's face, the shit had already hit the fan … big time.

* * *

Al Robbins logged the body of the little girl in himself. After getting a call from the Sheriff, he wasn't going to take any chances that there might be a screw-up, no matter how inadvertent. He knew two things to be unequivocally true. The Sheriff was far more concerned about his political career than he was in the truth, and Gil Grissom simply was not capable of committing such a heinous act.

This autopsy moved to the top of his priority 'To Do' list and would stay there until the case was settled. He sent word to Catherine that the autopsy on the victim she and Sara had sent in would be on hold for the time being. Somehow, Robbins didn't think they'd mind.

* * *

The only thing that moved faster than the speed of light in the known universe was a piece of gossip along the LVMPD's unofficial information pathways. It probably wasn't seconds after the Sheriff had gotten the call from Brass that everyone in the department knew that Gil Grissom had somehow become a suspect in the abduction and murder of a little girl.

Sara and Warrick were stunned by the grapevine prattle. The buzz became bad news as soon as they received Catherine's call telling them that the We-Store-It homicide would be theirs to work without her.

The storage unit victim had been stripped and placed on a gurney awaiting autopsy and all the clothing that had been on the body had been bagged and was now sitting on top of the Evidence Room illuminated table. Warrick had covered the table with clean white paper. Sara sat across from him. She wasn't paying any attention to the evidence bags in the center of the lighted surface. Neither, for that matter, was Warrick.

"I don't believe it," Sara said, arms crossed in front of her.

Warrick sat on his stool and seemed to stare at nothing. "It's bullshit, that's what it is."

"Who the hell is this guy, anyway?" Sara wanted to know.

"Some rookie in Homicide," he told her. "Rumor has it his shield is still in the original Cracker Jack wrapper."

"This is just so bogus," she insisted.

"You got that right."

* * *

Conrad Ecklie, the day shift supervisor of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, got the call from Sheriff Mobley and immediately got up and showered. He'd have to be very careful with this case. The odds that Grissom had anything to do with the abduction and murder of a child were remote - but not impossible.

That made his position in the investigation pivotal. Conrad could think of nothing else as he dressed and prepared to head into his office. What was the best way to handle the investigation without the appearance of bias? It was common knowledge in the department that no love was lost between he and Grissom. The fact that the Sheriff called on him to deal with the situation was telling. Mobley trusted Conrad. Recently, Grissom had made some points with the Sheriff by pulling off some very high profile cases, but Conrad had always considered his shift, his team, the A-team when it came to dealing with the most sensitive cases the crime lab faced.

Kissing his sleeping wife on the cheek and picking his keys up off the bureau, Ecklie headed out of his house and to his car. He continued to debate the best way to handle this case.

Perhaps it would be wise to keep Stokes. The night shift CSI had done most of the field work and was well into the particulars of the investigation by now. The more Conrad thought about that idea the better he liked it. Yes, Stokes would stay on as lead investigator under Conrad's supervision. Willows would get the boot immediately. With one of the night shift's own still on the case, no matter what the investigation uncovered, Conrad couldn't be accused of tainting the findings. Of course, it didn't hurt that Stokes was well known as the weakest member of Grissom's team.

* * *

Neon blinked at him through the windows of his condo just as they had several hours before, only now the pulsing lights reminded him more of the flashes of high explosives on a battlefield than the beacons of humanity. He felt embattled. He supposed he was.

Sheriff Mobley's call had been a courtesy. An official investigation would have to be conducted. Gil would have to remember to thank the good Sheriff the next time he saw him.

Surprisingly, he didn't find himself bitter. He was disappointed, however. What a waste.

Somewhere, out there in the night, was a killer. Gil knew that. He also knew that he would find that killer, sooner or later. His only hope now was that he found the bastard before another child like Shelly died at his hands.


	14. Chapter 14

Another special thanks to my beta-readers, Allie and Janet. They help to keep the voices true and the story honest.

**Warning**: This portion of the story contains graphic material/difficult subject matter.

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 14  
by Cheers

"This is the biggest load of crap I've ever heard," Catherine asserted, loudly. Her tone, if not her exact words, carried beyond the closed doors of the Conference Room at CSI and into the corridor outside. She glared at both of the men who stood in front of her. Conrad Ecklie and Sheriff Mobley seemed to flinch a little at the anger in her voice. She wasn't going to let the department burn Grissom in effigy because a rookie Homicide detective had a burr up his butt. "Gil Grissom is no more capable of committing this crime than my daughter is."

"I don't disagree with you, Catherine," Sheriff Mobley replied, trying to stay as calm and collected as he could. He wouldn't serve himself well if he got into a shouting match with the fiery night shift CSI. He had to find a way to diffuse her temper, if such a thing were possible. "You know as well as I do that the department has to be very careful about this kind of internal investigation."

"Yeah, right!" Catherine shot back. You have to be careful not to lose votes come next election, she thought darkly, barely maintaining the control needed to keep from saying so out loud.

Mobley took a breath and let it out slowly. "Look, Catherine. When Nick Stokes was under investigation both Ecklie and I gave you the time you needed to find the evidence to clear him. Why don't you give us the same courtesy?"

Catherine gave him a mirthless half laugh. "You want me to believe that Conrad is really interested in proving Grissom's innocence?"

"Of course he is. We all are. No one wants to see an employee of this department go down for a crime like this. " Mobley assured her. "We're leaving Nick on the case. He'll be primary. Ecklie will be there to supervise, to assure everyone that no favoritism is involved."

That stopped Catherine's objection for the moment. She thought about what she had just been told. If they were leaving Nick on the case, then perhaps there really was some hope that Gil wouldn't simply be railroaded. She still didn't like the idea that she would have to be hands-off on this one, but at least with Nick, someone who knew the truth from the start would be involved. "And you'll leave Nick alone, let him do the job."

Mobley nodded. "Absolutely."

Conrad Ecklie simply stayed where he was, reclined against the end of a table, staring at his shoes.

This time it was Catherine's turn to take a deep breath. This was as good as the current situation was likely to get. However, she had another battle to fight. "I still need Gil to work on another case."

That brought Conrad to life. "No," Ecklie replied immediately.

"The storage unit case is dead in the water without him," she replied. "What little we have amounts to bupkus."

"You know it's standard procedure to place anyone under investigation on administrative leave," the Sheriff asserted. "That doesn't leave us much choice."

Catherine ran her fingers through her hair out of sheer frustration and a need to do something with her hands that didn't involve punching one of the men in front of her in the mouth. "What the hell are we supposed to do with all the entomological evidence we have? Can you do the analysis, Conrad? Can anyone else in this town?"

Both men knew the answer to that question was no. Grissom was one of a dozen or so forensic entomology experts in the country. Ecklie had said it himself, Grissom's work with the LVMPD elevated the reputation of everyone at the crime lab by association. Grissom was well respected nationally and internationally.

"The rules are the rules, Catherine," Conrad told her. "It's out of my hands."

"What about you, Sheriff," Catherine challenged. She didn't even attempt to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "Is placing Grissom on restricted duty out of your hands? Are you that afraid that his work on this case will constitute a threat to the city?"

Brian Mobley shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, thinking. No one with half a brain would argue that Grissom posed a threat. Suspect or not, the threads of evidence that linked him circumstantially to the murdered girl were tenuous. He had been backed into a very uncomfortable corner by an eager young Homicide detective and Conrad Ecklie, a man with his own ax to grind where Grissom was concerned. Gil Grissom had served the city of Las Vegas for nearly twenty years. Though he and Grissom had had their differences, Brian had to admit that Grissom never failed to put the job ahead of his own personal agenda. No one who knew Grissom would argue the fact, either.

"All right," the Sheriff said, coming to a decision. "I'll place Grissom on restricted duty and assign a uniform to keep tabs on him until the investigation is completed. If he's cleared, no harm no foul. If he's not …." Mobley left the rest unsaid.

"He will be," Catherine said firmly. "You can bet the next election on that." With that, she turned and headed out of the room.

"You're very welcome," Mobley said to her retreating back.

Catherine heard him but just kept on going. She was too angry to give the Sheriff the satisfaction of gratitude. She was right about needing Gil's help with the case and dead right about his innocence. Besides, Grissom wasn't the only one who could commit professional suicide.

* * *

It was 5:23 am in the morgue. The naked body of the eight-year-old girl lay covered by a folded sheet under the lights of the autopsy bay. Doc Robbins was giving Nick the information he had requested. "I've sent the fibers and foreign hairs I collected to Trace. I put a rush on it but I won't get the results of the SART kit back until later today. I don't need the results to tell you that she's been sexually assaulted."

"Poor little thing," the CSI murmured sympathetically. Nick, in a blue lab coat and with gloved hands, folded his arms protectively over his chest. No matter how often he had seen the brutality of one person against another, it was always difficult when it came to little kids. A part of him hoped it always would be. Once you became hardened to things like this, you lose the sense of your own humanity.

"How'd she die?" Nick asked the coroner.

"She was pretty badly beaten but that's not what killed her." Robbins' pointed to the little girl's neck and mouth. "I found bruising around her throat and some inside her lips. It's as if someone cupped a hand tightly over her mouth. She was suffocated and strangled. The official cause is asphyxia. It's a toss up as to which action killed her, though. Most likely, a little bit of both."

Nick swallowed and nodded. "Anything else?"

Doc Robbins looked at the young victim again and then back at Nick. "Only that the perpetrator, whoever he was, used a condom or a foreign object during the assault. I didn't find any semen."

"He couldn't have been impotent?" Nick wanted to know.

The coroner shrugged. "That, I can't tell you. What I can say is that her vaginal canal was severely lacerated. The attack was prolonged and violent for someone so sexually immature. Whoever did this wasn't trying to be gentle."

The chill in the room seemed to seep into Nick's bones. He hugged himself as if to keep warm. Again he nodded. "Thanks, Doc."

Leaving the autopsy bay, Nick could feel the tightness in his jaw. This guy was a vicious bastard and Nick would love nothing more than to beat the living daylights out of him the moment he was found.


	15. Chapter 15

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 15  
by Cheers

The sun was coming up. Sunlight began to flood through the high windows of the interrogation room. A neglected cup of coffee sat growing cold on the table in front of Gil Grissom. It wasn't Greg's Hawaiian Blue, so Gil didn't feel too bad about the waste. He sat back in his chair with one elbow on the table, and absentmindedly rubbed the tip of his right ring finger with the thumb of the same hand. The gesture was unconscious. Catherine could remember seeing him do it thousands of times. She watched him through the one-way glass. It was the first time she could ever remember rooting for the person on the suspect's side of the table. In the interrogation room, Detective Paulson hadn't missed the gesture either.

"Are you nervous, Mr. Grissom?"

Gil pursed his lips slightly as if considering the question and then shook his head. "No." His answer was direct, simple and brief, just like every answer he had given during this current session of questioning. He didn't ask the detective why Paulson would think he was nervous. Under no circumstances was Gil going to relinquish control of this interview.

If Paulson had expected more, he didn't get it. Grissom was a tough customer, no doubt about that. He had been cooperative, answering every question without hesitation. Grissom did not, however, offer any additional information nor did he embellish his replies. The interview was getting Paulson nowhere fast. He decided to try a different route with the suspect.

"I ask because you seem to fidget quite a bit," Paulson nodded at Grissom's right hand as he spoke.

Gil looked at his right hand but never stopped the movement of his fingers. A barely perceptible shrug was all the reply he offered the younger man.

Paulson, who was seated opposite Grissom and had been taking notes on a legal pad, dropped his pen and folded his hands on top of the tablet. "Are you going to answer?"

Waiting a beat, Gil informed the detective, "You haven't asked another question."

Carl sighed audibly despite himself. Grissom was getting on his nerves. "Okay," he said sitting back in his chair, "here's a question. Shelly Danbridge gave you flowers, didn't she?"

Gil's reply was instant. "Yes."

"When?" Carl asked immediately.

"About 10:30 am yesterday."

"You know the time that precisely?"

Grissom nodded.

"How?" Paulson pressed.

"That's when I got home from work," Gil said.

"Were you inside the building when she gave them to you?"

"No."

"Where were you?"

"Outside."

Despite the grave nature of the situation on the other side of the glass, Catherine found herself smiling. Grissom had been party to more interrogations that Paulson was likely to participate in over the next ten years of service, assuming he remained on the force that long.

"The kid has no idea how outclassed he is," Jim Brass said as he stepped up beside Catherine in the observation room. "At this rate they'll be in there all day."

"He shouldn't be in there at all!" Catherine countered.

"Hey," Brass said, a bit defensively. "You're preaching to the choir here."

Realizing that she had been too harsh with him, Catherine gave him an apologetic smile. "I know. I'm sorry."

Looking back through the glass at the scene in the interrogation room, Catherine asked, "Can you get him out of there any faster?" obviously referring to Grissom. "I'm gonna need him tonight if we're to make any progress on the We-Store-It homicide."

Brass nodded. "I'll see what I can do." With that, he left the observation room, and in a few moments Catherine watched as he entered the interrogation room.

With two more direct questions, Paulson had ascertained that Grissom had encountered Shelly Danbridge in the parking lot of the condominium complex and that Grissom had just stepped out of his vehicle. "Did she approach you or did you approach her?" was the question Carl was asking when Brass entered the room.

"She approached me," Gil answered.

Without interrupting, Brass sat down next to the young detective. Paulson gave his boss an inquiring glance. Brass simply nodded and gestured that he continue.

Grissom looked at Jim and gave him an acknowledging nod. "Good morning," he said to the new arrival.

"Morning," Brass replied, a half-hidden smile on his face.

Carl cleared his throat to retrieve the attention of his suspect. "Mr. Grissom," he began again, "did Shelly say anything when she approached you?"

"Yes," Gil responded immediately.

Carl waited for Grissom to continue. When he didn't, as had been the case for the past hour and a half, Paulson looked at his captain.

Brass raised his eyebrows and gave his detective a 'What do you expect me to do?' look. Gil didn't miss the expression.

Turning back to Grissom, Carl asked the next obvious question. "What did she say?"

"Here," Gil replied flatly.

Carl's brows furrowed. "That's all?"

"Yes."

"She just said 'Here.'?"

"Yes."

Paulson paused. They were going to be here for a very long time. Grissom was a son of a bitch, but a smart one. Opening his mouth to ask his next question, he was interrupted by Brass before he got the first word out.

"Mind if I give it a try?" Jim asked the young detective. Of course, he knew what the answer would be.

Carl closed his mouth and blew out some air. His frustration was reaching an all-time high which wasn't going to win him any brownie points with his commanding officer. Perhaps letting Brass swallow some of Grissom's act would help his captain to understand what he was up against. "Sure," he said, gesturing toward Grissom in a 'have at it' motion.

Grissom met Brass's gaze and waited. Brass was having a hard time containing his grin. "Dr. Grissom, can you give me a detailed account of exactly what transpired from the time you arrived home from work yesterday morning and exited your vehicle until you entered the front door of your condo?"

"Sure," Gil replied, and then proceeded to recite his memory of the entire encounter with Shelly Danbridge, including a description of the flowers she had given him and the words of the conversation as exactly as he could recall them.

Carl Paulson sat staring at his suspect for several moments as Grissom talked about the encounter. Brass interrupted once to suggest that Paulson take notes. A little embarrassed that he had not been doing so from the beginning, Carl picked up the pen and began to write as soon as Grissom began to speak again.


	16. Chapter 16

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 16  
by Cheers

Aware that the evidence was not about to examine itself, Warrick and Sara had set about looking over the clothes the victim in their case had been wearing. They felt a bit helpless when it came to Grissom. They both knew exactly what Grissom would have told them if he'd had a chance to speak with his team. Do the job. That's what they did.

Warrick had managed to identify the fabric pattern and color specific to the recliner the victim was found in. The pattern was called Golden Heartland, and was comprised of what the manufacturer called wheat yellow, real copper, deep brown, and burnt gold colored fibers. Sara had tracked down the retailers of this particular style of recliner in Las Vegas and had a list of seven stores still in business that had received shipments from the manufacturer's distribution center. The two CSIs would have to wait for business hours later in the day before they could find out how many of the recliners had actually been sold in Las Vegas and to whom.

At first glance, the clothing the victim had been wearing when found didn't seem to be leading them anywhere nearly as helpful. The clothes consisted of a size 15x34 blue oxford shirt from Lands' End, a Paul Dione navy suit, sized 38 regular, a JCPenney white t-shirt, size medium, Fruit of the Loom briefs, also size medium, a pair of navy dress socks, and a pair of black Nunn Bush wing-tip dress shoes, size 11-D.

The victim's wardrobe seemed to be filled with standard off-the-rack fare, indistinctive and untraceable. It wasn't until Warrick turned the suit jacket inside out and used the UV light to inspect the lining along the rear hem seam that he found what looked like numbers inked onto the fabric.

"Hey, Sara," he called to his partner.

Sara looked up from her inspection of the soles of the victim's shoes. "What have you got?"

"Take a look at this and tell me what you think," Warrick said, rolling the stool he was sitting on to the side so that Sara could step up and look at the markings he had found.

Grabbing the magnifying glass Warrick offered her, Sara bent down and looked at the indicated spot. "6-7-6-9," she recited, reading the numbers aloud. "The first number is offset from the rest. A laundry mark?" Sara offered looking up.

"Bingo," Warrick said.

* * *

In another room of the lab, Nick had been hard at work trying to help Grissom. Carl Paulson had arrived at the crime lab earlier that morning with an evidence bag containing a box of trash bags seized from Grissom's Tahoe. Nick had done a preliminary inspection of the garbage bag in which Shelly Danbridge had been found. After determining the size, shape, and brand of the bag, Nick had collected all the trace evidence he could find on the bag and labeled that evidence for further analysis. He had then sent the bag to Jacqui in the Fingerprint Lab to see if she could lift anything usable off of it.

The box of bags taken from Grissom's SUV contained the same brand as the one used to dump the victim in, but there was a chance that they weren't the same size or shape. Nick set about measuring a bag from the box taken from the vehicle so he could compare it with the findings he had from one found at the crime scene. What he found would go a long way toward implicating or exonerating his boss.

* * *

Conrad Ecklie sat in his office and read through the initial reports associated with the Danbridge case. As far as Ecklie could determine, there was a two hour gap of time that provided Grissom with ample opportunity to abduct the victim. Grissom's report of his whereabouts for the past twelve hours seemed damning. According to the estimated time of death provided by the coroner, the time frame of a possible scenario associated with the senior CSI fit the known facts perfectly.

Shelly Danbridge had been murdered less than four hours prior to discovery by Detective Paulson and Officer Mickelson. She could have been killed at any point after Grissom left the crime scene at the We-Store-It. A man Grissom's size could easily have subdued the girl, assaulted her, placed her somewhere secluded, gone to the crime scene at the storage unit, retrieved the victim after signing out at the crime scene, killed her, and then dumped the body behind the Albertson's on Ash.

Brass reported that Grissom had called using his cell phone. The number recall on Brass's own cell phone confirmed that fact. Although Grissom claimed to be at home when he received the page from the detective, Grissom could have been anywhere within the Las Vegas Valley when he called Captain Brass. Only nineteen minutes had elapsed from the time Brass received the call from Grissom until the CSI reported his arrival at the storage unit facility to dispatch. If Grissom had stowed the victim somewhere, it hadn't been far from the corner of N. Eastern and Hincle.

Conrad knew that trace evidence recovered from the victim's body and clothing would help them pinpoint where that secluded spot might be. When they found it, they would most likely find the place where the victim had been murdered.

The circumstantial nature of the timeline and the lack of any real hard evidence worked in Grissom's favor. Conrad was willing to wait for more evidence to implicate Grissom before pushing for more official action against the night shift supervisor. He didn't have to wait long.

Nick knocked on the door of Ecklie's office and waited to hear "Come." before entering. The day shift supervisor put down the reports he had been reading and looked at Nick expectantly.

"I have the preliminary results you asked for," Nick told Ecklie. With a sick feeling in his gut, he handed the CSI day shift supervisor the reports of his analyses.


	17. Chapter 17

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 17  
by Cheers

By 7:00 am, Catherine had been joined in the observation room by Warrick and Sara. They had been watching Grissom answer the allegations that he might be a murderer. The goings-on in the interrogation room was making Sara angry. What the hell kind of loyalty was this? Grissom worked his ass off for the citizens of Las Vegas and this police department only to be hauled in on the barest of circumstantial evidence and questioned like a career criminal? This whole situation was just too bizarre for words.

"Doesn't the night shift have important evidence in cases under their own purview to process?"

The three night shift CSIs looked to the doorway to find Conrad Ecklie and Nick Stokes standing just outside the observation room. It was Ecklie who had spoken.

Warrick took a small step toward the day shift supervisor. "Night shift's over. We're on our own time here," he told Ecklie, "and that's not just our boss in there."

There was a dangerous undercurrent in Warrick's tone. Ignoring it, Ecklie leaned in toward Warrick. "Well I guess that's the reason the Sheriff felt it necessary to place me in charge of this case."

This time it was Sara who stepped forward. Pointing her finger at the center of Ecklie's chest, she hissed through stiff lips, "No, you're on this case because you can't stand the id…."

"Sara!" "Sara …."

Both Nick and Catherine interrupted her. Nick stepped around Ecklie to intercede and took a firm hold of Sara's shoulders, turning her away from Ecklie and back into the observation room. Sara was about to make a monumental mistake by telling Ecklie exactly what they all thought of him. Although it might have made all of them feel better, it would do nothing to help Grissom and it would very likely damage her career.

"Confrontations aren't going to help Grissom," Catherine told the rest of the night shift team. She didn't do much to hide the distain in her voice, though. "He's just trying to do his job, aren't you Conrad?"

Conrad stood with hands on hips and determination in his face. "That's right. Look, the best chance Grissom has of beating this rap …"

"Beating the rap?" Warrick interrupted, disbelief and anger on his face.

"Warrick," Catherine said gently.

Ecklie paused to give Warrick a warning glance. "Of beating the rap," he picked up again, "is if the evidence in the case clears him. The more time we spend standing around arguing about who's running this investigation and why, the longer he stays a suspect."

"Then I guess you better get to it," Catherine said with a mirthless smile.

Giving them all a hard look for another long moment, Ecklie tried to convey how serious he was about his position. Grissom's underlings were more like cult members than employees. "Nick," he said firmly, calling the junior CSI.

"Yeah," Nick acknowledged. He gave Sara a gentle squeeze to her shoulder before heading back out into the hall to follow Ecklie, who was already moving away.

"Bring it home, Nicky," Warrick told his friend as he left.

Nick looked back at them and nodded. If it was within his power to bring the truth home for Gris, he sure the hell would.

* * *

Gil Grissom continued to sit with an almost placid expression on his face as Carl Paulson and Jim Brass continued to question him. Brass had joined the questioning as a captain in the Homicide division, not as Gil's friend. The younger detective had been getting a very valuable lesson in interrogation techniques from the veteran cop. Grissom would have been entertained by the situation if it hadn't been for the serious nature of his current circumstances. With every moment they wasted sitting there, questioning an innocent man, the real killer was at liberty to find another child to victimize. The sexual predator responsible for killing Shelly Danbridge wasn't going to stop at just one victim. He wasn't going to stop until he was made to stop.

That truth didn't do a whole lot to help Grissom at this moment in time. His innocence was in question. When you're innocent, you keep your mouth shut and let the evidence do the talking. Right now, the evidence was pointing a cursory finger at Gil.

"How long were you at the We-Store-It?" Carl Paulson wanted to know.

Gil sighed. The detective had to know that he had signed in and out of the crime scene and that the log was on file with the police department. Before Grissom could answer the question, the door to the interrogation room opened to admit Conrad Ecklie and Nick Stokes. Grissom glanced first at Nick, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring look. Nodding to both men he said, "Good morning, Conrad. Nick."

"Sir," Nick responded, taking up a position just inside the door against the wall. When Gil looked at him, Nick nodded slightly toward the mirror on the opposite wall of the interrogation room, letting Grissom know that a least one member of his night shift team was in the observation room watching.

Conrad moved to stand behind Brass and Paulson. He didn't acknowledge Grissom's greeting. Instead, he produced some paperwork from the inside pocket of his sport coat and handed them to Brass.

"What do we have here?" Brass asked, taking a look at two reports. He took a minute and read through both quickly. His expression flattened to unreadable.

Without saying anything, Brass passed the reports to Carl Paulson. Paulson glanced at them briefly and then turned both reports around on the table and pushed them forward for Grissom to see.

Both reports listed the dimensions in centimeters and the known brand of an inspected trash bag. One of the bags had come from a box found in Grissom's Tahoe. The other had recently held the dead body of Shelly Danbridge. The size and brand of both bags matched. Both reports were signed by the CSI who had done the comparison, Nick Stokes.

Looking up from the reports, Grissom made a point of not glancing at Nick. The results of the comparison had been made carefully and, Gil was sure, accurately. The last thing he wanted to do was make Nick feel guilty for doing his job. Gil waited for one of the three men directly in front of him to say something.

"Well?" Carl Paulson finally asked.

Grissom didn't say anything. There hadn't been a true question asked.

Paulson looked over at Brass and Ecklie. It was Ecklie who spoke next. "How do you explain these reports, Gil?"

"Coincidence," Grissom replied, ignoring the inappropriate use of his given name.

"Coincidence?" Paulson asked, frustrated with Grissom's cool demeanor. "These reports state that the garbage bag used to dump the victim's body is an exact match to the bags found in the back of your SUV."

In the observation room, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine exchanged looks.

"What does that prove?" Sara asked.

"Just what Grissom said it did," Catherine replied. "Coincidence."

"Yeah. But I bet Ecklie's not likely to accept that explanation," Warrick said.

"Bastard," Sara muttered.

Grissom looked at the young detective with something that resembled sympathy. "No," he informed Paulson, "they don't."

"They don't?" Paulson responded angrily, taking back the reports and looking at them again. He glanced back at Grissom. "Then what do these reports tell you?" Carl challenged.

Gil took a deep breath before replying. "The reports say that both trash bags have the same dimensions and manufacturer."

"That's what I said," Paulson told the CSI.

"No," Grissom corrected him. "What you said was that the bags matched exactly. That's not what the reports reveal."

A small smile began to spread across Catherine's face as she watched. "Smart, Grissom."

"Smart?" Sara asked, turning to look at Catherine.

"He's telling Nicky what to do next," Catherine said.

Warrick began to nod his understanding.

Sara was catching on as well, "Right."

Jim Brass fought to hide a grin. Gil Grissom was one smart cookie.

Conrad Ecklie wasn't happy with the way the tables had been turned on the young detective. He decided to jump back in. "But they are consistent," Ecklie told Grissom.

Looking up at Ecklie, Grissom allowed himself the barest hint of a grin. "That's what I've always liked about you, Conrad," Gil told the other CSI supervisor. "You understand the principal truth."

Before he could think better of it, Conrad asked, "Oh yeah, and what's that?"

More for the benefit of the members of his team who could hear him than for Ecklie, Gil didn't hesitate. "The evidence never lies."


	18. Chapter 18

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 18  
by Cheers

Ecklie wasn't just angry when he entered his office after leaving the interrogation room. He was furious. The Sheriff would let Grissom come back to the lab on restricted duty, Paulson made an ass of himself, and Brass seemed to enjoy the whole thing. Damn Grissom anyway. That man was made of Teflon. It remained to be seen if Grissom could worm his way out of this jam. A little girl was dead and the citizens of Las Vegas wouldn't rest until they had a villain. If Conrad had his way, he'd hand them Gil Grissom on a platter.

* * *

The proper place to start was at the beginning. Grissom had taught him that. Finding the beginning was another thing altogether. Grissom had given Nick an important clue in the interrogation room. Now he had to make use of that information. Nick wasted no time. As soon as he left the interrogation room, he found the manufacturer's customer support 800 number on the box of trash bags taken from Grissom's Tahoe and called it. He would start with the only information he had and work from there.

* * *

It was late that morning when he was able to leave interrogation. If Gil thought that he was headed home for some peace and quiet before going back to the snake pit that CSI headquarters had become, he was mistaken. He had been followed home by an LVMPD squad car. He might has well have had a cop on his car's hood with a bullhorn announcing his arrival. What greeted him at his condominium complex was the unfriendly, unwelcome, and all too familiar Las Vegas news media circus. They had discovered the identity of the victim and, most probably, the fact that he was now a viable suspect in the brutal murder.

Since his department-issued SUV had been impounded for search in the investigation, Grissom had driven to headquarters for his interrogation in his own private vehicle, a 1995 model BMW 530i. Grissom drove around to the back of the complex, hoping to escape the throng. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Pulling into his parking space and tugging on the door handle, what felt like a flood descended upon Gil. Reporters shouting questions, microphones shoved to within centimeters of his mouth, the pop and blinding effects of flashbulbs going off in his face, and the inevitable visual chaos of many bodies all trying to occupy the same physical space, that immediately around him, pressed in on him.

This was perhaps the only time when Grissom would have welcomed the waning of sound that his hearing loss brought from time to time. In some perverted twist of fate, God saw fit to keep Gil's hearing acuity high as he attempted to wade through the melee and reach the comparative safety of his own living room.

"Mr. Grissom! Did you kill Shelly Danbridge?"  
"Dr. Grissom! Why did you do it?"  
"What kind of monster are you, Mr. Grissom?"  
"Did you use your knowledge as a CSI to commit this crime, Mr. Grissom?"  
"Dr. Grissom! Do you have any knowledge about this murder?"  
"Mr. **Grissom**!" "Dr. **Grissom**!" "Mr. Grissom, sir?"

Pushing against the oncoming tide, Gil kept his mouth shut. He was a strong man, and when he chose to use his muscular build to his advantage others usually gave way. They did now. Slowly, the reporters, their microphones, cameras, and questions where forced to the side long enough for him to reach the back entrance to his building. Just as he was reaching for the handle to try and pull the door open, it opened from the inside to reveal two uniformed police officers. These men stepped to either side of Grissom and created an escape route through the door and into the back stairwell.

One of the officers remained outside to bar access to the door while the other moved back inside with Grissom. Gil waited inside for the officer to pull the door shut again.

"Thanks for the assist, officer," Grissom told him.

"Yeah, sorry about that," the uniform replied. "We should have been a little faster getting out there. Are you okay?"

Gil gave his body a quick once over and nodded. "I seem to be all in one piece."

"Good."

Turning his attention back to the officer, Gil wondered if this was the promised shadow the Sheriff had told him to expect. "And you are?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry," the police officer said and extended his hand. "Officer Barron. Doug Barron."

"Gil Grissom," the CSI said, shaking the other man's hand and then releasing it.

"I know who you are, sir," Barron said a little nervously. "The Sheriff assigned me … ah … to …."

Gil nodded. "I know." He looked the young officer in the eye. "Thanks again for the help out there." With that, Gil turned and headed up the stairs to his home. He wasn't surprised to hear the officer right behind him. As Gil exited the stairwell into the hallway of the third floor of his building, he found another officer standing outside Mrs. Danbridge's front door. He supposed this was to protect the Danbridges from intrusion by the media as well. It also effectively prevented Gil from making any further contact with his neighbor. His efforts to try and comfort Martha Danbridge or help with the investigation in any official capacity had come to an end.

Moving down the hall to his own front door, Gil didn't miss the slight nod both the uniformed officers gave one another. They each had their own jobs and they would do them. This was one time that Gil didn't envy the officers of the LVMPD. Babysitting an innocent man, whether they knew him to be innocent or not, had to be low on the list of reasons to join the police force.

Inside his home, Gil found another form of chaos. The search of his living quarters that he had agreed to had been conducted. Cabinets were open, papers and books were strewn across tables and chairs. Someone had gone through the clothing and other personal items in his bedroom. The sheets from his bed had been removed and taken. There was fingerprint powder on the surfaces of the sinks, faucets, and countertops of both bathrooms and in the kitchen. Then he noticed something else.

The flowers that Shelly had given him were gone.

Standing in the center of his home, Gil Grissom took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was nearly overcome. Not because he was an innocent man who was suspected of a terrible crime. Not because his life had been upended. Not because he could lose his job, something that had become the most important defining aspect of his life. Not because of any of that, but because what had brought all this about was the tragic loss of a bright and joyous young life.

Shelly Danbridge was dead.


	19. Chapter 19

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 19  
by Cheers

By four in the afternoon, both Sara and Warrick had reported back to work. The news coverage of the Danbridge case had seemed nonstop. They had both decided that working on their own case would help distract them from what concerned them the most - how their boss was holding up. Now it was well after six in the evening and they were taking a break from playing phone tag with area businesses.

"I've got calls out to local merchants who sold the same model of recliner our vic was found in," Sara told Warrick over cups of coffee in the Conference Room. Both CSIs were avoiding the Break Room and the inevitable questions they would get from other curious lab employees. "I'm following up on the replies I've gotten already. As far as I can tell, hundreds of these chairs were sold in the Las Vegas area over a three year period. There is no way we're going to be able to track this particular recliner."

She looked at her partner. "How 'bout you?"

Warrick shook his head. "I've called over twenty cleaners in Las Vegas so far. No luck."

"You want some help with the rest?" Sara offered.

"That'd help," he told her, looking up from the contents of his coffee cup. "Thanks."

The television in the corner of the room blinked at them with the volume turned down. The partners looked up and watched again as the image of their friend and colleague was shown struggling to move from his car to his home. Gil Grissom's image was accompanied by a graphically generated tag that sat at the bottom of the television picture. The tag read, "Murder Suspect?"

* * *

Carl Paulson entered the bullpen at the homicide division of the LVMPD Tropicana area police headquarters and headed for his desk. The usual hubbub of the office seemed to fade in a wave ahead of him as he moved along the rows of office furniture. Ray O'Riley looked up from a report he was working on and fixed Carlson with a firm, unfriendly gaze. Paulson had called into question the innocence of one of the staple personalities in the department. He was beginning to realize just how big a can of worms he had opened by placing Grissom on the official suspect list for the Danbridge murder. Right now, Grissom was the only person on the suspect list. No one, especially those who worked closely with him, was happy about that.

Reaching his desk after deciding to ignore the hushed whispers and stares from other officers, Paulson came face to face with a small token of retribution, Las Vegas PD style. His desk was covered in trash bags - dozens of them. Each one had a message either written on it or on a tag that was attached to it. The messages all said, more or less, the same thing and with varying degrees of colorful language. Basically the message was, "Why don't you try to find the real killer and leave an innocent man alone."

What seemed to escape everyone else in the department, except for perhaps the Sheriff and the day shift CSI supervisor, was that it wasn't at all clear that Gil Grissom was innocent. Carl wondered why others couldn't see that. And, up to now, there wasn't a better lead in the case to run with. The case against Grissom, though circumstantial, wasn't insignificant. Just like every other case they dealt with, the outcome of this one would have to wait for the analysis of more of the evidence.

Paulson still had a lot to do on the case. He had more neighbors to question, more background checking to do on Grissom, and the parents of Shelly Danbridge to talk to. Their plane was going to land in just under an hour at McCarran International. Paulson wanted to be there when it did.

* * *

Jacqui's search for fingerprints on the trash bag Shelly Danbridge had been found in came up empty. The killer had apparently used gloves. That left Nick with the bag itself to analyze.

After calling the customer support line number he found on the trash bag box, Nick had eventually been put in contact with a quality control expert employed by the trash bag manufacturer. The information he gleaned from that contact had been invaluable. There was no way that he was going to let Hodges handle this analysis. Nick wanted to make sure the job was done rapidly and with skill. He took his idea to Greg Sanders, the resident night shift DNA lab technician and chemistry guru.

"Sure," Greg responded after listening to Nick's proposition. "We can do that. It'll take some time, though."

"How long?" Nick wanted to know.

Greg thought about that for a brief moment. "XRF analysis doesn't take that long, perhaps 30 minutes per sample total time, including set up. But there isn't a comparison database for this."

"We don't need one," Nick told the tech. "All we need is a direct comparison between the two samples. If we can establish commonality or lack of commonality…."

Greg nodded his understanding and picked up the thought. "Then we can determine if the bag used to dump the body is a true match to the ones found in Grissom's car."

"That's it," Nick said and turned to head out of the DNA lab.

"But what if they match?" Greg asked the retreating CSI.

Nick stopped and looked back at Sanders with a 'you can't be serious' glare. "They won't," he said flatly and left Greg to the analysis. The information Greg's analysis would yield would also help identify potential samples from the actual killer if they found any. Nick wasn't going to waste time worrying about the impossibility of Grissom's guilt. He had other fish to fry.

* * *

It had seemed a good idea to go home and catch some rest before returning to the office. Conrad Ecklie had decided to try to spend some of his time at the office late each evening since Stokes was most likely going to do the lion's share of the analysis of the evidence during the night shift. Conrad had gone home for several hours to catch up on the sleep he had lost early that morning after the Sheriff had called. What he found when he returned to his office really pissed him off.

His desk was covered with dozens of individual as well as boxes of trash bags. They all had evidence tags attached with messages written on them. Much of what had been written wasn't fit for general consumption. Some were more subtle and simply read, "I did it." or "I'm Spartacus."

Conrad was not amused.


	20. Chapter 20

Once again, I'd like to thank my beta-readers. Allie and Janet, you gals are just THE best. This story and I both benefit from your insight and wisdom. Thanks so very much!

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 20  
by Cheers

The evening sky, now a dark grey, caused the scene on the playground to resemble that of a 1950's newsreel. The colors that had been so vibrant in the sunshine were now washed to muted tones of grey. Robin Freeman was sitting in the sandbox and playing with her Malibu Barbie and Jeep. She didn't notice how dark it was getting. She did notice the pretty doggie that came right up to her and joined her in the sand. The dog had a leash that was dragging on the ground.

"Hello," she said to the dog. The dog wagged his tail and licked her hand. Robin laughed.

"There you are," a man said to the dog as he walked up to the sandbox. He reached for the end of the dropped leash.

Robin looked up at the new arrival and smiled. "Is this your doggie?"

The man smiled back. "Yes. Do you like him?"

Robin looked back at the dog and nodded. She petted the dog's back. "He's nice."

The smile on the man's face faded to a look that was more often seen on a hunter's face who had finally spied long sought after prey. "He thinks you're nice, too."

"What's his name?" Robin wanted to know.

Before the man could answer, their attention was drawn away from the dog.

"Robin?" a voice from a nearby house called. Across the street, the light on the porch of the Freeman home came on and a woman stepped out of the front door. She called again. "Robin! Time to come inside!"

"I have to go now," Robin said dejectedly. She didn't want to leave the nice man with the pretty doggie.

"That's okay," the man said. The expression on his face had not changed. "Maybe we will meet again and you can play with my dog."

"Robin! Now!"

Robin got up and collected her toys. "I'd like that," she said. She gave the doggie one last pet and then ran for home before she got into real trouble.

He watched the little girl go and wound the leash a little tighter around his hand. She would do nicely. Finding her had been all too easy.

"See you soon, Robin," he said quietly.

* * *

Grissom had to fight the media circus not once but twice in order to make it into his office. The local members of the fourth estate had him surrounded at home and at work. It was a pleasure to finally arrive in the relative quiet of his own office, even if he wasn't the actual supervisor on shift. Those duties fell to Catherine until his innocence was proven. His current duty had been restricted to the entomological analysis of this one crime scene. Grissom looked forward to the analysis but felt a bit odd being at the lab and being unable to assist with any of the myriad other things going on. He dropped his briefcase on his desk and sat down. The certainty that he would be found innocent was something that Gil never questioned. He believed in the criminal justice system and, more importantly, in the Las Vegas Crime Lab and in Nick. Grissom wasn't ignorant of the fact that sometimes innocent men went to jail. This wouldn't be one of those times. If there was any exculpatory evidence to be found, Nick would find it. The time it would take to do so was the issue. The longer the media and everyone else wasted time centering their attention on him the more uncomfortable he became. At least in his office he could spend time thinking about something else. He could do what he did best of all. He could solve a puzzle.

The current puzzle involved developing an entomological timeline for the crime scene in the storage unit case. Multiple bottles all labeled 'Evidence' awaited him in his office. Half of the collected insects had been immersed in an alcohol solution for preservation, the other half of the insects were alive. Sara had been true to her word and had placed the maggots in petrie dishes with food and moisture. This gave him the best chance of determining the post-mortem interval. He would do an entomological regression as soon as the maggots developed. Until then, he would focus on identifying the species he was dealing with and then determining the represented stages of development.

Ruminating about his current status at the lab wasn't helpful, so Gil decided to spend no more unproductive time on it. He started preparing for the analysis immediately. He hadn't gotten far when there was a knock on his office door. He looked up at the door and frowned.

* * *

Martha Danbridge welcomed her son and daughter-in-law into her home and her embrace. She apologized for the umpteenth time only to have her son tell her, "It's not your fault, Mom."

Detective Paulson stayed only a moment before taking his leave. He had been able to assure Shelly's parents that the department put the highest priority on this case. When they asked if they could see Shelly, Paulson had made arrangements for the family to view the body at the morgue later that evening. Dr. Robbins, the chief medical examiner, would be there personally to answer their questions.

Right now, the Danbridge family needed time to comfort one another. Martha Danbridge had been fending off the press all day. Questions about her granddaughter and her neighbor assaulted her from all sides. She didn't want to believe that Dr. Grissom was responsible. It just didn't seem possible. She told her son as much as soon as the detective left. If her neighbor was the one who had killed Shelly, Martha didn't think she would ever be able to forgive herself. How could she live right next door to a killer and not know? How could the man who had been so kind after her husband's death and Shelly's disappearance be the same man who took her granddaughter's life?

Martha had promised she wouldn't cry again. It was a promise she couldn't keep. She had worried that her family would blame her as much as she blamed herself. Martha wasn't sure she could bear their disdain. As if to prove her fears were unfounded Cheryl Danbridge, her son's wife, Shelly's mother, put her arms around Martha. They all cried together.


	21. Chapter 21

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 21  
by Cheers

Usually, Gil kept his office door open. He liked being accessible to the people at the lab. If they had a question or concern, he wanted them to feel free to speak to him. Though never really considered a 'people person', Gil felt it was his job as a senior investigator to help others work through the issues arising from the many cases the lab worked on daily. His experience was a valuable asset, not just to him but to his team. But right now, he wasn't in the sharing mood.

When he didn't answer right away the door swung open. Gil wasn't too surprised to find it was Catherine entering his office uninvited. She rarely kept the distance from him that the other members of his team did. Their friendship was long and she didn't find him nearly as intimidating as the younger employees of the lab did. Grissom had discovered that Catherine rarely found anyone intimidating. He was surprised to realize that he felt a bit relieved and even a little glad that she was standing in his office.

"Hey," he said as he turned to face her.

"Hey, yourself," Catherine replied. "I saw you were here and thought I'd check to see how you're holding up."

Gil shrugged. "I'm fine."

Catherine ignored the stock answer she knew she'd get from her friend and looked back at the office door, now standing ajar. "Feeling antisocial today?"

That got more than the expected reply. He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not here as the supervisor," he gave a slight shrug as he explained. "I figured the supervisor's door could remain closed."

"And you could keep all those pesky co-workers who are concerned about you at arm's length as well," Catherine replied.

Gil just looked at her.

"I thought as much," she said, meeting his gaze. Catherine knew not to expect much more from Grissom. This lack of demonstrativeness was normal. That didn't mean that she was any more pleased now with this aspect of his personality than she had ever been. Sometimes she just wanted to shake him.

Another knock at the door announced the arrival of Warrick and Sara at Grissom's office. Gil had to lean forward slightly in his chair in order to see around Catherine and identify the new arrivals.

"Can we come in?" Sara asked.

With a look that signaled resignation more than anything else, Grissom gestured that they enter. They were worried, he supposed. Why should they be? He was a robot, right? Hadn't they all said so, in one way or another?

Gil immediately and silently chastised himself. He wasn't being fair. Fear and anger had forced the unkind words he had received. There were enough unfounded accusations floating around without Gil giving in to the bitterness. It was only a matter of time before he would be proven innocent. Patience had always been a virtue he tried to practice. Right now they all needed to do that. By all reports, several members of the PD and the crime lab were a lot more impatient with the evidentiary process than he was.

"You doing okay?" Warrick asked after entering the office behind Sara.

Gil gave the younger CSIs a stern look. "I'm fine," he assured them just as he had Catherine. All the concern was discomforting.

Both Sara and Warrick gave Grissom an appraising look, trying to determine just how fine he might be. If Grissom was upset or angry about his current status at the lab or as a suspect, he wasn't about to say so. They really hadn't expected anything else from their boss. It was more important to let him know that they were there for him.

"We're not making much progress on the storage unit case," Sara offered in an attempt to say anything that wouldn't seem like emotional prying. She gave Grissom a brief review of the findings she and Warrick had made after examining the recliner and the victim's clothing. They were still trying to run down the laundry mark.

"The post is scheduled for midnight tonight," Catherine informed them. "We may know more after that."

Grissom nodded. "And if I'm ever allowed a chance to start this analysis, our insect friends might have a thing or two to offer as well."

Catherine grinned. "That must be your not-too-subtle way of telling us to leave you and your bugs alone," she half-joked.

Gil looked over the top of his glasses at her. "Yes," he said. His matter-of-fact tone told all of them that he was not wasting any subtlety on them at all.

"Well," Catherine said, not losing her grin, "I guess we can take a hint." Turning she said to Warrick and Sara, "Let's let the professor do his job, shall we?"

They all headed toward the door when Warrick stopped. "Hey, Gris? Did you hear about the deposits Ecklie found on his desk tonight?"

They turned back to Grissom and Sara could swear she saw the fleeting hint of a smile on his face. When he spoke to them, though, he was all business.

"I did," he told them. Leaning forward and pointing at them with the pen he held in his hand he said, "I better not hear that any of you had anything to do with that." Grissom eyed the three members of this team for a moment. If they were guilty of participating in antagonizing Ecklie, they were hiding it well. "You're senior investigators. I expect more from you."

"Sure," Sara said, nodding her agreement.

"No worries," Warrick added, fighting a smile.

With that, they all left. Catherine hadn't said another word. Gil was certain he could see the telltale grin on Catherine's face that was a sign she knew more than she was willing to say. Sometimes there were things it was better not to know. He had to admit that he wished he could have seen the look on Ecklie's face when he found the 'deposits'.

* * *

Nick had managed to isolate more animal hairs from Shelly Danbridge's socks. The hairs he found were similar in color and length to the hairs he had found on her dress and the top of one shoe she was wearing when found. There wasn't any underwear. The SART kit that had been sent to Greg for analysis also had included animal hairs. Doc Robbins had found similar hairs on the body and sent these to Nick as well.

Using the comparison microscope, Nick had been able to determine that the hairs were canine. The crime lab didn't have a very extensive database for dog hair, but the FBI did. Nick took several high definition photographs using the microscope imager and placed these in the file with his initial report. He would have to access the FBI database in order to determine breed or breeds of dog represented by the hairs that had been collected. This was an analysis he would let Hodges perform. Hodges would jump at the chance to prove Grissom was innocent. That kiss-ass would never pass up a chance to win brownie points with the boss.

Nick had also found two different kind of colored fibers. Both looked like some kind of carpet fiber. These would be his next priority, but they would have to wait.

At least the number of dog hairs suggested extensive exposure to an animal. Mrs. Danbridge didn't own a dog. Neither did Grissom. This was the first bit of good news Nick had obtained from the case. Now there was solid evidence that pointed away from Grissom. Where, exactly, the evidence pointed to was still a mystery.


	22. Chapter 22

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 22  
by Cheers

The image of Shelly Danbridge's face was visible on the viewing room display. The bruises on her small face seemed even more pronounced on the monitor. Cheryl Danbridge was unable to look away from the image of her little girl. They had been allowed to see the body for a brief moment, but the coroner wouldn't allow them to touch their daughter.

The victim's grandmother hadn't come. Martha Danbridge simply couldn't bring herself to look at Shelly's body. She didn't want to remember her granddaughter that way. She wanted to remember the little girl who skipped and played and loved the wildflowers.

Shelly's father had stepped into the viewing room with his arm around his wife. When she moved toward the monitor that showed Shelly's face, he turned away. Ron Danbridge didn't have any questions for the coroner. His eyes had told him all he wanted to know. Shelly was dead and her death had been brutal. He balled his fists and shut his eyes tight against the knowledge, as if somehow by sheer will he could make the reality he saw go away. An overwhelming need to kill the man who did it filled him. Five minutes. That's all he would need. Five minutes alone with that bastard and he'd show the pervert exactly what it must have felt like to Shelly.

To little Shelly.

His rage turned to uncontrolled sobbing and he found himself sitting in the corner of the room with his wife in his arms. Oh God in heaven, why her. Why their precious little Shelly….

* * *

Nick was headed for the DNA lab after receiving Greg's page. He noticed the lights were on in Grissom's office. Stopping in the hallway outside, Nick looked in while Grissom worked with the depth of concentration that was the envy of just about everyone in the lab. The scene in Grissom's office was familiar. Nick continued to spy for several more minutes before moving on. Grissom was hard at it on a case that had nothing to do with his current troubles. Typical.

There was a white foam board with dozens of individual insect specimens pinned to it. Grissom had arranged them in some order that signified species and then by size. Evidence jars were stacked on his desk and books were opened one on top of the other. Currently, Grissom was looking through the field microscope at a specimen and then consulting one of the books on his desk. Most likely some chart.

Crossing his arms, Nick wondered what his boss might be thinking - probably about nothing but bugs right now. Grissom had to know that there were people hard at work trying to exonerate him. He was powerless to help in his own defense. Nick understood what he was going through. It was tough to have a possible murder charge hanging over your head. Nick hadn't been able to do anything but wait and pray that Catherine found the evidence to prove he hadn't killed Kristy Hopkins. Nick's situation had been different. His own actions had put him in contact with Kristy at her home just before she was killed. Grissom hadn't done anything but just be Grissom, and he was suspected of a much more heinous crime. In the eyes of the law, the murder of an adult was very different from the sexual assault and murder of a child. All death was tragic. It just seemed that the loss of so innocent a life was more so. Grissom must be going through hell. No one would know it by observing him bent over his desk. But then, there was a lot about Grissom none of them knew. Turning away, Nick headed for the DNA lab.

Arriving in DNA, Nick found Greg hard at work as well. "I got your page, Greggo."

Greg Saunders looked up from the microscope he was peering through.

"What have you got?" Nick asked.

"Well," Greg replied, rolling his stool sideways so he could pick up a completed report and hand it to the CSI. "I did a comparison like you asked. The two bags aren't consistent."

Taking the report from Greg, Nick gave it a quick read. "Hey, that's great man. This is really going to help."

"Uh," Greg continued holding up a gloved finger. "I didn't stop there though."

Nick looked back at the lab tech. "Oh?"

Greg grinned. "I figured we needed a slam dunk, so I ran all the bags from the box found in Grissom's Tahoe. They are all consistent with each other but not with the trash bag the victim was found in. The bag used to dump her body did not come from Grissom's box." Greg handed Nick the second report.

That brought a smile to Nick's face. "Oh man, that's perfect. Thanks buddy."

With reports in hand, Nick headed for Ecklie's office. With the information he had from the trash bag manufacturer's quality assurance expert and Greg's reports as well as the abundance of dog hairs, he had a pretty good case that Grissom was not the man who killed Shelly. He knew one supervisor who would hate the news, another who would love it, and a certain rookie detective who needed the reports stapled right between the eyes.

* * *

Warrick hung up the phone from a fruitless conversation with the manager of yet another all-night cleaners. Sara was finishing with another call to a dry cleaners on her own half of the list.

Hanging up, Sara turned to her partner. "I'm beginning to think that laundry mark didn't come from anywhere here in town."

"Or maybe we were wrong about that number being a laundry mark," Warrick offered.

Sara thought about that a moment before answering. "Maybe … it's a tailoring mark."

"Tailoring?" Warrick asked. "I thought we had decided that suit was from off the rack."

"Yeah, but don't guys buy off the rack and then have a suit fitted later?" Sara wondered.

Warrick nodded. "Yeah, they do," he said slowly, thinking about the possibility.

"So maybe we should be calling tailors," she said.

"Maybe," Warrick said.

* * *

Midnight was rapidly approaching. He stood in a darkened room and stared out at the night. Las Vegas lights beckoned but he did not heed. His mind was preoccupied with his new find.

Perhaps he was pushing things. The police had a suspect for the death. That left him room to pursue what he needed. The last encounter had not satisfied him. Maybe this one would.

With his dog lying asleep in front of an easy chair, he wondered if Robin would be at play tomorrow. The ache in his groin told him he was a little more that hopeful that she would be.


	23. Chapter 23

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 23  
by Cheers

"Let me see if I understand this," Sheriff Mobley intoned, a little more than upset. He had been called in the middle of the night at Stokes' insistence. Currently sitting in the conference room at the Crime Lab, the Sheriff was joined by Carl Paulson, Conrad Ecklie, and Nick Stokes. It was the young CSI who was making his case for Grissom's innocence. "The trash bag manufacturer supplied you with the composition?"

Nick shook his head. "Not quite," he explained. "The quality assurance inspector for the manufacturing company explained the manufacturing process. You see, each bag made will have several defining characteristics that help to identify it from other bags made by the same manufacturer. Since the bags are mass-produced, each bag won't be entirely unique. But certain chemical and physical attributes can distinguish one bag from another."

Mobley still wasn't sure he was getting it. "Defining characteristics."

"Yeah," Nick continued, obviously excited by the information he believed was exculpatory. "The garbage bags are made from a liquid plastic mix that is blown into tubes, cooled, folded, and then cut. Each batch of the plastic mixture used to make the bags will be unique since no two mixtures will contain the same trace element levels. See, the liquid plastic batches are a mixture of recycled and new plastic elements. The recycled bits of plastic are from imperfect prior batch garbage bags that fail quality inspection. They are shredded and added to the new mixture. These bags are either white or dark and may or may not have those yellow ties you use to close the bag."

Brian Mobley nodded. This he was able to follow.

Nick could see that he was making sense. "The white plastic is rich in titanium dioxide and those yellow plastic ties are very high in iron. Depending on the amount of recycled material used in each batch of plastic mixture, the levels will vary. Each batch will have unique levels of titanium dioxide and iron. Using high intensity X-ray florescent spectrometry, we can measure these levels in a given sample."

"Like the trash bags found in Grissom's possession and the one the victim was found in," the Sheriff said.

"Exactly," Nick replied.

Mobley read the reports he had been given again. "Then these reports tell us that the garbage bag used to dump the body of that little girl did not come from the box of bags taken from Grissom."

"That's right," Nick said.

"But it doesn't mean that Grissom didn't kill her." This last came from Carl Paulson. They all looked at him. "Grissom is a criminal investigator. He knows how to get rid of evidence. What's to say that he didn't just toss the box that the victim's bag came from?"

Choosing to ignore the detective for the moment, Nick turned back to the Sheriff. "We also found an abundance of animal hairs on the victim and on her clothing. Dog hairs to be more precise. The victim's grandmother doesn't own a dog. Neither does Grissom. Somehow, between the time she left her grandmother's home and when she was killed, she came into very close contact with a dog or with an environment filled with dog hair. None of the evidence taken from Grissom's Tahoe or his home contained animal hair."

"He took her to someplace that a dog had been," Paulson insisted.

Nick was losing his temper now. "The last time I checked, a person was innocent until proven guilty," he said hotly. "You don't force the evidence to fit a theory. You build a theory from the evidence you have."

"And what does the evidence suggest to you, Mr. Stokes?" Sheriff Mobley asked the CSI, trying to diffuse the rapidly rising tempers.

Giving the detective a stabbing glare, Nick paused before answering the Sheriff's question. "That the perpetrator probably owns a dog. He may have even used the dog as a lure to get the victim to go with him without raising an alarm."

At this, Mobley looked expectantly at the CSI supervisor. Conrad Ecklie had remained silent throughout this meeting - probably because he knew that Stokes was correct about Grissom's innocence.

"Ecklie?" Mobley asked. "Do you agree?"

Conrad had to admit that Nick's hunch about the killer of Shelly Danbridge made sense. He wasn't pleased about it, though. Still, the Sheriff was going to be more interested in catching the perpetrator than in proving Grissom's guilt or innocence. It would serve Conrad better if he steered the investigation toward finding the actual killer. Grissom hadn't done it and that meant that someone else did. That someone else was still out there. With obvious reservations, he nodded and said, "It makes sense. Everything we know about sexual predators suggests that this is a likely scenario."

Carl Paulson stared at the CSI supervisor. "But what about the time frame? Grissom can't account for the two hours before the victim disappeared."

Nick opened his mouth to reply but was beaten to the punch by the Sheriff.

"If someone were to ask me to account for time I spent home alone," Mobley told the detective, "I wouldn't be able to provide an alibi any more than Mr. Grissom could. He was most likely right where he said he was. And, until you can show me any other corroborating evidence to the contrary, I'm willing to accept his account as gospel."

* * *

Catherine, Sara, and Warrick were gathered on one side of the autopsy table listening to Doc Robbins. The John Doe from the storage unit lay on the table in front of them.

"He suffered a single gunshot to the head," the coroner informed them. "The bullet entered through the right orbit. The shot was made at almost point-blank range. There's no exit wound."

"No exit wound?" Sara asked.

"So we can retrieve the bullet," Catherine suggested.

Turning, Doc Robbins moved toward the radiograph viewing panel on the wall near the foot of the autopsy table. They followed. Several x-ray images of the victim's skull were illuminated. He pointed to a small area of hyperdensity that was obviously a piece of metal. "There's a large bullet fragment lodged in the occipital region. I'll send it to Bobby in Ballistics as soon as I recover it."

"Any other injuries?" Warrick wanted to know.

"None that are obvious," Robbins said. "I'll send tissue samples out for toxicology. Right now it's looking like a straightforward death-by-gunshot."

"Do you have any idea about time of death?" Catherine asked.

Robbins moved back to the autopsy table and looked at the body again. "The amount of desiccation makes it hard to establish. Right now I'd say anywhere between ten days to three weeks. Grissom should be able to give you a more accurate estimate."

Of course, that would depend on Grissom still having a job, Robbins thought. He felt another twinge of anger at what was happening to his friend and colleague. By the looks he received from the three CSIs at the mention of their boss's name, Robbins knew he wasn't alone.


	24. Chapter 24

Once again, I'd like to thank my beta-readers Allie and Janet. The story benefits in untold ways from their insight and guidance.

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 24  
by Cheers

By 3am, Gil had been at the analysis for eight hours. He had been able to identify two species of _diptera_, two _demestids_, one _histeridae_, and a single _pholcidae_ species. The enclosed environment of the storage unit had prevented a more diverse _phiophiledae_ or _coleoptera_ representation. He still had to determine developmental stages present for all identified species. To do so, he would factor in variables like temperature, humidity, and light levels in the storage unit. This would involve calculating the amount of daily direct sun exposure on the door of the unit, the amount of light and heat transferred to the inside of the closed door, temperature gradients within an empty storage unit of the same dimensions compared with the outside ambient air at varying times throughout a 24 hour period, weather patterns in Las Vegas for the past 90 days, relative daily humidity for the same time period, and the known temperatures of the larval masses on the body he had recorded at the time of collection. The whole process was simplified by the body's placement away from soil and foliage and out of direct exposure to the elements. All in all, a very nice entomological analysis. The diversion provided Gil with a mental respite from the rue he felt when he thought about Shelly Danbridge.

Grissom was not responsible. He hadn't assaulted or killed her. That knowledge didn't help very much.

Shelly's killer, whoever he was, had violated her in unspeakable ways. But not just her - the entire Vegas community. The killer had crossed the line of decency and broken the public trust. A state of collective community grief was fueled by fear and dread. Most of that fear, coupled with a healthy dose of loathing, was aimed at the only known suspect. It was aimed at Grissom.

But here, in his office, with the insects and his books, Gil felt oddly safe from the accusations, large and small, past and present. This place of scientific endeavor was a bastion of sanity for the scientist. This world made sense to him. In it, he felt he had a great deal to offer. He could do some good, make a real difference. Corny as that might sound, it was the life Gil had consciously chosen. The fact that he might lose it all frightened him more than anything else in his life had.

What otosclerosis had not yet been able to do, this one act of horror - the murder of Shelly Danbridge - just might accomplish. This life that Gil had made for himself could fall apart.

Taking his glasses off, Gil dropped them on the topmost book of a large pile on his desk. It was a parasitology text. Sitting back in his chair, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was half-heartedly listening to a Vivaldi violin concerto when the sound of the music faded to a dull hum. Gil turned to look at the boom box that sat on the corner of his desk. The power light was still on and he could see the disk spinning through the small clear plastic window in the player door. He had an urge to increase the volume but knew that doing so would not help. He was still staring at the near-silent boom box when he was startled by the sudden opening of his office door. He was even more surprised by the person who stepped through it.

* * *

David Hodges knew that Stokes had been right that the animal hairs found on the victim and her clothing were canine. The spade-shaped roots of the dog hairs were folded and triangular. The dog was a short-haired variety. Color of the hairs was dark brown to black. Hodges wondered if the dog wasn't a Labrador or a lab mix. He ran with his hunch and found a nice match with the FBI canine database.

He double-checked his results before preparing his report. Hodges wanted Grissom's approval but he also wanted his gratitude. The more the boss depended on Hodges and his analysis skills, the faster the lab technician would advance. He always knew that the analysis of the evidence, not the gathering of it, was the most important aspect of forensic investigation. The CSIs in the office were far too self-important for his liking. Proving Grissom's innocence would be a nice feather in Hodges' cap for sure.

* * *

Jim Brass waited in his office for the young detective. After talking with the Sheriff, they had both agreed that the best medicine for inexperience was to stay the course. As much as Brass would love to drop-kick Paulson's ass right out of his division, he knew that this whole ugly mistake would teach the detective a very valuable lesson. If Paulson could make it through and close this case, the department just might find that he could be an asset, not a liability.

Hell, Brass had made his share of mistakes. Thankfully, he had never fried a colleague doing so. The largest obstacle Carl Paulson would have to jump was riding out the backlash from members of the department, both cops and the forensic guys.

Not that long ago, Brass would have done everything in his power to get rid of someone like Paulson. He had learned a valuable lesson of his own. His leadership, though not gentle, would bend its energies toward making this detective a smarter investigator. But that would be after Brass pinned his proverbial butt to the wall.

A knock told him his appointee was not late. "Come," he said loudly.

Carl Paulson stepped through the door to his captain's office and moved to stand in front of Brass's desk. He was not able to read the expression on the older man's face.

"Have a seat," Brass said, nodding to one of the two chairs that faced the visitor's side of his desk. Paulson complied.

Brass sat quietly and observed the detective for several minutes. Paulson became more and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. He began to fidget in his chair, straightening his tie several times and tugging on his coat jacket sleeves. When it became obvious that his captain wasn't going to say anything, Paulson cleared his throat in preparation of beginning his defense.

"You should have learned something important from all of this," Brass said, preempting the detective's statement and surprising Paulson.

"Yes … yes, sir," Carl said, unsure of what to think. He was completely unable to read the captain's tone or expression.

Brass nodded and sat forward, folding his hands atop his desk blotter. "Why don't you tell me what you've learned," he said almost too softly.

Paulson's palms were sweaty. He hadn't felt this nervous since he took the verbal psychological examination upon entering the academy. Despite his promise to himself to the contrary, Carl was becoming sorry that he had ever put in his transfer request to the homicide detail. He was much less sure of himself than he had been just two days before. How could he have let things go so wrong so fast with this case? When he had stood in Grissom's living room and found those flowers, everything had seemed to drop into place. Everything seemed to fit, neat and tidy. Everything, that is, except Grissom's character. Paulson had come to realize that nothing about Grissom was really all that normal. He loved bugs and crime scenes. He had no family to speak of but he was well respected by just about everyone. His investigative skills were practically unparalleled and had even proven the Sheriff wrong a time or two. But Grissom didn't toot his own horn. He quietly went about doing his job, day in and day out. And he was very, very good at what he did.

Brass could practically see the wheels turning inside Paulson's head. He didn't want to give the detective too much time to think. With a fast movement, Jim slammed his hand down on his desk. When Paulson nearly jumped straight up from his chair, Brass smiled.

"I'm not sitting here for my health, detective," Brass said almost cordially. "Tell me what you've learned."

"Yes, sir," Paulson said nervously. The fine sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead. "I know that I should have investigated Mr. Grissom's charac…."

"DOCTOR Grissom," Brass corrected sternly.

Paulson nodded and continued correcting, "I should have investigated Dr. Grissom's character more thoroughly before making any allegations that he could be our suspect."

"Your suspect, detective. But that's a good start," Brass said. "What else?"

Carl absorbed the off-handed rebuff with a nervous swallow before continuing. "I should have consulted with you immediately."

"That's right," Jim replied. "You should have brought any suspicions you may have had to your commanding officer, not gone over my head." With each word, the volume in Brass's voice rose. He gave his anger a little bit more lead to run. "So why the hell didn't you do that, Detective Paulson? Huh? I'll tell you why. You were so intent on making a name for yourself in the department that you forgot the most important aspect of police work. Protect and serve.

"But you're not going to forget that ever again, are you, detective? You're not going to because I'm going to make damn certain that you don't!"

As Brass continued, the officers and other employees of the LVMPD that passed by his closed office door could hear the anger in the captain's voice and subconsciously picked up their pace as they walked. No one wanted to be the person who sat across the desk from an angry Jim Brass. No one in their right mind, anyway.


	25. Chapter 25

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 25  
by Cheers

"I'm sorry, Sheriff," Grissom said, rising. "I didn't hear a knock." As he spoke, the music he was listening to faded back in. Gil turned the boom box off, giving the impression that it was the music that prevented him from hearing the Sheriff at his office door.

Brian Mobley looked at the pile of books on the CSI supervisor's desk then over at the foam board that had dozens of insects and larvae pinned to it. "I guess you're in your element with the bugs."

That produced a wry smile from the forensic investigator. "It's the only element left to me."

Mobley looked at Grissom. Gil had every right to be bitter. Still, Brian hadn't expected it from him. "I'm here to talk about that very thing."

* * *

Nick had specialized in hair and fiber analysis during his training. He chose to take on the challenge of the two different colored fibers himself. He worked for several hours in the solitude of the Layout Room. He was able to isolate automobile carpet fibers easily enough. One set of the fibers found on the victim and her clothing were consistent with tan automotive carpeting commonly found in Ford vehicles. The samples were tri-lobal and synthetic - nylon. The color was specific to more recent model years. Nick requested a complete list from the manufacturer of all makes and models of Fords in all model years that came standard with the tan carpeting.

The second type of fiber was harder to pin down. Also synthetic, the fiber appeared to be from some type of carpeting as well. Once Nick had ruled out nylon, the most common synthetic carpet fiber, he decided to use GC mass spectrometry to determine what type of polymer he was dealing with. What he found was polypropylene, or olefin. The polymer was a continuous filament fiber that was pre-dyed a beige color during manufacture. His guess about the fiber's use in carpeting was correct.

Shelly Danbridge had come into contact with two different carpets before being killed. Nick would have to rule out any fibers she may have picked up in her grandmother's home or vehicle. If the fibers weren't consistent with carpeting in those two places, then he had the first pieces of real evidence that would solve the mystery of where she may have met her premature death.

* * *

After leaving the morgue with the preliminary post results on their John Doe, Warrick, Sara, and Catherine were met with the buzz that a high level meeting about Grissom had occurred. Catherine wanted to know what was happening, and as the acting supervisor for the night shift she decided someone was going to tell her.

Leaving Sara and Warrick to continue following up on the mark they had found on the victim's suit coat, Catherine went to get some information. If all else failed, Catherine would head to Ecklie's office. If the day shift supervisor was still in, she was going to wring the truth out of him - with her bare hands, if necessary.

Now armed with an approximate age thanks to Doc Robbins, along with the victim's height and estimated weight, Sara started a search of the missing person database. It was a long shot, but searches like this had paid off for her before. Grissom had once tried to discourage her from spending large amounts of time on a single case. He had been right, of course. She had been too emotionally involved with the case.

What if her emotional involvement with this case had nothing to do with the victim and everything to do with her boss? What the hell was happening?

What Sara wanted was to work with Grissom. To talk to him. To make sure he was doing okay. What she would have to settle for was waiting for his analysis, keeping her distance so he could concentrate, and praying that Nicky was making progress in proving Grissom's innocence. A missing persons search was just the kind of distraction she needed from the emotions she didn't really want to have to think about right now.

Warrick stayed on the laundry or tailoring mark. He was nearly at the end of his dry cleaner list and as the early morning wore on, more businesses would be opening up, giving him a chance to contact the remaining laundries on his list. After that, he would start on the list of tailors in town the computer business reference database spit out for him.

This type of work was tedious - drudgery. Warrick hated the drudge work. Grissom would point out that the job wasn't always about the big clues, the big cases. Grissom wouldn't give a damn about the tedium. Do the job, that's what Grissom would tell Warrick. Do it without bias and with precision. Don't cut corners. Follow every possible angle.

Taking a deep breath, Warrick reached for the phone to dial yet another number from his list. "Okay, Gris," he said to himself, "this one's for you."

* * *

Conrad Ecklie was closing up his office and heading home. Nick Stokes had the Danbridge case cooking on all burners, Carl Paulson was in line for a Jim Brass special, and the Sheriff had gone off to tell Grissom the good news himself. Being a day shift person, Conrad was sure that pulling many more of these night hours would kill him. God, he was tired. Just when he thought he was going to be home free, he heard a voice that made him wince.

"Ecklie!"

Turning, Conrad found that he was face to face with Catherine Willows. The look on her face told Conrad all he needed to know about her mood. If there had been a hole in the hallway, anywhere, Ecklie would have made a running jump down into it.

"Hello, Catherine," Conrad said with a cordialness that he didn't necessarily feel.

"What the hell is going on with the case against Grissom?" Catherine asked without preamble. Knowing that there had been a high level meeting, she'd gone first to Grissom's office. He wasn't there. Krista, the receptionist on nights, had told Catherine that Grissom had checked out of the lab and gone home. Catherine feared the worst.

Conrad took a deep breath and blew it out audibly. He really didn't want to do this right now. He was tired and he could hear his pillow calling his name. "You know I can't divulge the results of an investigation," he told her. "If you really want to know, ask Grissom."

Catherine's temper deflated a little. She was asking Ecklie to break protocol. But, dammit, sometimes protocol was meant to be broken. "He's not in his office. I've already checked. He's signed out and gone home."

Ecklie shrugged. "Then I guess you'll have to call him at home or wait until he returns to work."

That last statement gave Catherine pause. "What a minute," she began, mentally working through the information. "You said when he returns to work."

Conrad was losing patience. "Yes. Or page him … whatever."

Now Catherine was beginning to smile. "But if he's able to return to work then he hasn't been fired," relief filled her voice. "The meeting you had with the Sheriff earlier."

Now Conrad was frowning. "How do you know about the meeting?"

"So Nicky must have found something to exonerate Grissom," Catherine surmised. "And the Sheriff knows it."

"I didn't say that," Ecklie objected. When he met Catherine's gaze, he knew she understood that Grissom was cleared. "The official report of the department's investigation won't be made public until later this morning."

The bigger Conrad's frown became, the larger Catherine's smile grew. "Thanks for the information, Conrad," Catherine said. She patted him on the shoulder then turned on her heels and headed to tell the rest of her team the good news. She also wanted to find Nicky and give him a big hug. She would have to wait until she talked with Grissom to find out why he had gone home, but one thing was certain now. Gil Grissom was still a very big part of the Las Vegas Crime Lab.


	26. Chapter 26

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 26  
by Cheers

The Sheriff had requested that Grissom be at the news conference that was scheduled for 9 o'clock that morning. Grissom was tired and he had looked it. Mobley had practically ordered Gil to go home and get some rest. It wouldn't do for the innocent CSI to look too beleaguered when the press was informed that there wasn't a solid shred of evidence against him.

The relief that Gil felt when he knew that he was cleared, that he would be allowed to continue doing the job he had spent his entire life preparing for and perfecting, surprised him. It wasn't until he was sure of what the Sheriff was telling him that he realized how much energy he had been expending to keep his emotions under control. After Mobley had left his office, Gil sat down to think. So much had happened in the past 36 hours. He was having a hard time processing it all. One thing struck him, though. Sheriff Mobley's apology seemed sincere enough, but still felt hollow. Now Gil understood.

His apology must have sounded exactly the same way to her.

The drive home flew by. His mind was filled with thoughts of apologies, careers, and cases when he was ushered up the back stairs of his condominium building by Officer Doug Barron, who had pulled the night shift again. After the news conference, there wouldn't be a need for an official LVMPD shadow. That was something Gil definitely wouldn't miss.

Pushing through the fire doors at the landing on the third floor, Gil dug into his pocket and retrieved his front door keys. He was sorting through the keys on his keychain as he moved up the hall. He never saw the blow coming.

"YOU BASTARD!" Ron Danbridge shouted as he lunged at Grissom. His first blow caught Gil on the left side of his face and sent him back into the corridor wall. "YOU KILLED MY LITTLE GIRL!"

Officer Barron was only steps behind Grissom, but it took him several seconds to get a good grip on Danbridge and pull him off the CSI. By the time the officer had gotten a restraining hold on the enraged father, Gil had been struck by several more blows and was lying on the floor with his hands held out protectively. The last thing Grissom wanted was to get into a fist fight with the grieving parent of a murder victim.

Ron Danbridge continued to struggle against Officer Barron's restraining hold for only a few more seconds before he finally relaxed. The tears followed quickly on the heels of his rage.

"He killed her," Ron cried. "That bastard killed my Shelly."

"No, he didn't," the uniform told Ron Danbridge. "Dr. Grissom didn't kill anyone."

"I saw it on the news," Danbridge continued, losing certainty in his voice as he spoke. "They said he was a suspect."

Jim Brass had called Barron to tell him that Grissom had been cleared and that the officer was to treat him with the utmost respect. Grissom had been through the public opinion mill as it was. Barron slowly released his restraining hold on the father but maintained a steady grip on the man's arm. "Being a suspect doesn't mean you're guilty of anything. Dr. Grissom has been cleared, and the Sheriff will be holding a press conference this morning to report that publicly."

Gil slowly rose from the floor. Wiping the side of his mouth with the back of one hand, he realized he was bleeding. He didn't have a broken nose, but it wasn't for a lack of trying on Mr. Danbridge's part.

"Then who killed Shelly?" Ron Danbridge asked, confusion and grief now taking him over in the absence of his prior anger.

Doug Barron looked at Grissom. "Are you all right, sir?"

Grissom nodded to the officer and leaned against the wall for some support. He felt a little weak in the knees. It had been a long time since anyone had clocked him that hard. After catching his breath, he answered Shelly's father's question. "We don't know who killed Shelly, Mr. Danbridge. Not yet. But we can promise you that the department has placed the highest priority on her case."

Ron Danbridge stood quietly in the middle of the corridor and stared Gil Grissom in the eyes. He knew his mother's neighbor was telling him the truth. The man in front of him had not killed his daughter. Now who was he going to be angry at? Who had killed his daughter? Why couldn't anyone help him find the man responsible?

Gil watched as the emotions played across Mr. Danbridge's face. His heart went out to the man. There was no way Gil would ever understand the depths of his loss. Swallowing against the rise of his own emotion, Grissom took a step toward the grieving father.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Gil said softly as he stepped close. The words seemed too little, too patented to be of much comfort.

Ron Danbridge nodded as the tears flowed freely down his face. Officer Barron let go of his arm and the father, now spent of his rage, moved toward his mother's front door. Gil watched the man go until Ron stepped through the door and it closed quietly behind him.

* * *

Forty-five minutes after being attacked in the hallway outside his home, Grissom heard a loud knock on his front door. He rose stiffly from his couch and headed to answer the door. He had a pretty good idea who was there.

When he opened the door he realized that he was right, but not completely. He had expected Catherine, but that was not all he found. What seemed like a throng was huddled outside his doorway. The entire night shift CSI team stood looking at him.

As soon as Catherine saw Gil's face, the grin she wore disappeared. "What happened to you?" she asked, practically pushing past him and into his house. The rest of the team followed quickly behind her.

Gil was forced back up against the wall as they funneled past. "Why don't you come in," he said to their backs after they had entered.

Ignoring him, Catherine waited for him to close the door and look at them again. "Who the hell did this to you?" she demanded.

A chorus of "Wow, Gris." "Oh my God." "Damn, Gris." greeted him as he moved back into his living room.

Reaching his couch, Grissom sat down. He would never admit it, but he still felt a little light-headed. "It's nothing," he insisted. "I'm fine."

The team moved into his living room as well. Catherine walked over and sat down next to him. Before Gil could object, she was turning his face toward her so she could get a better look at his injuries.

"Nick," she said without looking up, "Get some ice, would ya?"

"I'm on it," Nick said as he headed for Grissom's kitchen.

Gil pulled his head away from Catherine and gave her an irritated look. "I said I'm fine."

"You look just peachy," Sara said, arms crossed and wearing a scolding expression on her face.

"I hope you got the license number of the truck," Warrick muttered.

Catherine scanned her friend's face. She didn't like the deep purple that was developing under his left eye. The whole left side of his face was swollen and the right side of his lower lip was still oozing a little blood. The handkerchief that lay on the end table was stained with blood as well. At least the ice would help with the swelling and finish staunching the blood.

"Are you going to tell us what happened to you?" Catherine pushed.

Grissom gave her a determined look. "No," he said.

That didn't sit well with Catherine. "Okay," she said, slapping her hands down on her knees and standing. "I'll bet the officer outside knows something and even if he doesn't, since you've obviously been assaulted I guess we should have him call it in."

"Don't do that," Gil said quickly. When Barron had asked if Grissom wanted to swear out a complaint for the assault, Gil had declined. He had also refused the officer's offer to call a rescue squad. All Gil had wanted after the attack was some piece and quiet. His team obviously had other plans. They were concerned about him. Gil knew that. But, dammit, he had his reasons for not wanting to tell them what happened. He was losing his temper.

"I said I'm fine," Gil insisted, not able to keep the ire out of his voice.

"Here's the ice," Nick said as he arrived with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and handed it to Catherine.

Taking the ice pack from Nick, Catherine sat back down next to Grissom and attempted to apply it to the side of his face. He flinched away from the cold.

"Would you hold still?" Catherine said with exasperation. "You're worse than Lindsey."

That admonishment brought a slight grin to the faces of the onlookers. Seeing their amusement, Gil finally stopped struggling against Catherine's ministrations. He took the ice pack away from her and gingerly held it to his sore face.

After a few seconds, he had to admit that his face did feel better. A quiet had settled on the room as the members of his team watched him. He felt decidedly like a goldfish in a bowl.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked them all.

They looked at each other and smiled. Warrick was the one who finally spoke up.

"Well, we heard that they kicked your ass out of the department so we figured we'd come over here and rub it in a little."

"Looks like someone else beat us to the punch," Sara observed.


	27. Chapter 27

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 27  
by Cheers

The news droned in the background as he made preparations for the day. He never saw the images of an impromptu memorial that had sprung up overnight at the site he had dumped the body. He was filled with anticipation. This time nothing would go wrong. He would make certain of that.

As he worked, the words of the newscaster caught his attention.

"Sheriff Brian Mobley is expected to address the city at a news conference scheduled in just a few moments. The family of Shelly Danbridge, the murdered eight-year-old girl, has reportedly already spoken with authorities about the status of the ongoing LVMPD investigation into her death. Here now is Sheriff Mobley…."

Stopping everything else, he listened as the Sheriff spoke. The news conference lasted for nearly twenty minutes. He didn't need to listen to all of it to know that his preparation for the day would have to include some things he had not previously planned on.

* * *

By midday the news conference was well over. Gil hadn't watched it. He had slept right through it. After he had sent his team to their respective homes, Gil had called the Sheriff to explain what had happened with Mr. Danbridge and describe the current condition of his face. They both agreed that Gil's absence from the news conference was preferable - the Sheriff because he didn't want to have to explain why his night shift supervisor looked like a barroom brawler and Gil because he hated news conferences out of principle.

The sun was streaming fully though his bedroom window when he awoke to a monstrous headache and the sound of his phone ringing. He winced when he rolled over to reach the receiver.

"Grissom," he said into the phone.

"Dr. Grissom. This is Joel Edwards from Channel 14 news…."

"No comment," Gil cut him short and hung up the phone in disgust. The belief that the news media would leave him alone once he had been cleared of suspicion had obviously been misplaced. He had not completely sat up on the edge of the bed before the phone rang again. Gil scowled at it. He had forwarded all calls to his home number to his voice mail box. Obviously, the box was full. He reached over and turned the ringer off. Dealing with his headache would have to take precedence over trying to deal with his call volume overload.

Serenaded by the continuing ring of the phone in his living room, Gil rose and headed to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. If he was awake, he might as well try to do something constructive with what remained of the daylight.

* * *

Carl Paulson spent the early hours of the evening canvassing the neighborhood around Gil Grissom's condo, asking everyone he came across if they remembered seeing anyone with a Labrador or lab mix dog in the area. He had already done a door-to-door in the condo complex. He bypassed Grissom's door. No one who lived there owned that type of dog.

Blaine McCallister, a woman who lived on the ground floor of the complex, did say she remembered a man who walked a large, dark-haired dog regularly in the neighborhood. The general description she was able to give of the man - thirties, medium build, medium height, dark hair - didn't exactly narrow Paulson's search. Hopefully the man had been seen by other residents of the area. With any luck, Paulson would find the man walking his dog and get an opportunity to question him.

One thing Ms. McCallister said gave Paulson pause. "There's just something about him that's kind of … well, odd," she had said. Odd meant something to take note of. Paulson did so.

* * *

He walked around the playground for well over an hour. Little Robin did not come out to play. As the sun began to set, he realized that any opportunity to feed his hunger tonight was rapidly disappearing.

That didn't change his plans. He would have to be patient. The longing he felt would be satisfied. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

* * *

Pleased that there had been fair weather in the past 24 hours in a year that had seen record rainfall for Las Vegas, Gil retrieved the recording equipment he had used to gather temperature, humidity, and light levels in a storage unit only three doors down in the same building as their crime scene. This unit was not only empty but was the same size as the one that housed the body of John Doe. Connecting the RHTemp to his laptop, Gil logged the data the device had recorded since he had placed it there the evening before. After making sure the temperature and humidity readings had been recorded at five minute intervals, he repeated the process with EXTech Light Level Meter. The data logged showed serial measurements of the levels of light in the closed storage unit in foot candles over the past 24 hours. Gil repeated the whole process with an identical set of recording instruments placed just outside the storage unit door. With the information he had gathered, Gil would be able to complete the rest of his PMI estimate.

Being returned to full duty as the night shift supervisor at the Crime Lab didn't deter Gil from his desire to finish the entomological analysis. There was always something very satisfying about completing such analyses.

As Gil was loading his gear into the back of his now reclaimed Tahoe, Warrick and Sara pulled up in an identical vehicle. Warrick rolled down the driver's side window.

"Hey, Gris," he greeted his boss. "Dispatch told us we could find you here."

"Just collecting the data I recorded from the storage unit," Gil explained.

"More bug analysis?" Sara asked from the front passenger seat.

Gil grinned. "Yes," he told her.

Warrick and Sara exchanged amused looks. Grissom was never happier than when he was involved with his bugs.

Turning back to Grissom, Warrick told him why they had stopped. "We found out where the mark on our vic's coat came from."

Gil stepped up next to the open window, his curiosity piqued. "Where?"

"The Tailor's Shoppe inside the Monaco," Warrick informed him. "We're headed there now. Brass got us a warrant."

"Good work," Gil said.

Sara leaned forward to ask, "Want to come along?"

Grissom thought about that for a second. The offer was tempting, but he had some catching up to do at the lab. "No, you go," he told the junior CSIs. Stepping back from their vehicle and pointing a finger at them he said, "Let me know what you find."

Warrick nodded. "Sure thing."

With that, Sara and Warrick pulled away. Gil watched them go before getting into his own SUV. Damn, it was good to be back in full swing. That mental note made him smile at himself. He gingerly rubbed the bruise on his face. Perhaps swing wasn't the best analogy he could have used.


	28. Chapter 28

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 28  
by Cheers

Nick hated the fact that he had to interrupt a grieving family in order to collect evidence. After getting permission from Martha Danbridge, Nick had checked the interior of her car. Mrs. Danbridge drove a Dodge Neon with wine colored interior. The automotive fibers found on Shelly and her clothes had not come from her vehicle. That left the other carpet fibers to deal with.

The Danbridge home was understandably somber. Just like Grissom's home, the floors of the Danbridge condo were patterned concrete with a commercial polyurethane floor coating that added a durable clear shine. Martha Danbridge had large area rugs in the living room and in both bedrooms. These carpets were patterned and dyed hand-woven imported items. "My husband loved them," she explained. Nick was certain the fibers were natural and not synthetic. He took samples for comparison anyway.

As he collected the last samples from the living room rug, Martha Danbridge wanted to know something. "You must be the Nick that Dr. Grissom said he was going to consult the night…." She couldn't finish. The grandmother dabbed a tissue to the corner of her eyes.

Placing the last fiber he collected in a bindle, Nick rose from his knees and looked at the grief-stricken grandmother. "Yes, ma'am" he said simply.

"Dr. Grissom said you were the best," Martha said softly.

Nick couldn't keep the amazement out of his face. Astonishment quickly became embarrassment when he realized that Grissom was probably just trying to bolster the woman's hopes before they knew that the body he was investigating was her granddaughter.

Ron Danbridge, who had been watching the CSI while sitting with his wife at the dining area table and silently sipping on a cup of coffee, looked surprised as well. "You know Dr. Grissom?"

Nick turned to look at him. "He's my boss," he informed the father.

That brought Ron Danbridge out of his chair and over to the CSI. Cheryl Danbridge rose and followed her husband. The younger Mrs. Danbridge placed her arm supportively on her husband's shoulder.

"You're going to find the man who did this, aren't you?" Ron asked.

Nick nodded. "We are doing our best to find him, Mr. Danbridge. I promise you that we want nothing more than to see justice done." He hoped that the determination in his voice was evidence enough of the department's commitment to catch the killer.

The father nodded. He reached up and took hold of his wife's hand. It seemed to Nick that Mr. Danbridge still had something else to ask, so he waited patiently for the man to have his say.

After a brief look at his wife's face and a nod of encouragement from Cheryl, Ron cleared his throat and addressed the CSI again. "Would you tell Dr. Grissom that I'm sorry?"

Now Nick was confused. "Excuse me?"

"For attacking him the way I did," Mr. Danbridge explained, a look of shame written on his face. "I was just so angry and … well, he was the only one the news people said could have done it … and …."

Nick interrupted the apology. "No need to explain, Mr. Danbridge," he told the man. "If it would make you feel better, I'd be happy to relay the message."

Cheryl Danbridge looked visibly relieved. "Thank you," she told Nick. "We're really very sorry for the misunderstanding."

Nick thanked the family again for letting him collect the needed evidence. Leaving the Danbridge's, Nick had a newfound respect for his boss. The mystery of Grissom's face was now solved.

* * *

The AV Lab door was closed. Archie Johnson wanted to keep the hubbub of the busy lab from interfering with his analysis of the project he was working on. The anonymous call made to 911 Dispatch the night Shelly Danbridge was killed had been made from a payphone in a high traffic area. The phone speaker was older equipment and poorly maintained. That made the quality of the recording poor to begin with. The voice was obviously male; not much else could be discerned through the pops and hum of the static.

Fortunately Archie, the lab's resident audiophile, knew a few tricks. After digitizing the recording, Archie ran the sample through multiple cleaning algorithms developed by NASA to clear the static of transmissions received from space. The technology was first used with the Apollo missions and had been further developed to provide better communication with space shuttle crews.

Completing another pass through the cleaning algorithms, Archie listened to the message again. The voice was much clearer. There was also a very distinct background noise that sounded like a large automatic door swinging open. That made sense since the payphone was at the front of a large supermarket.

The oddest thing about the tape was the tone of the voice he heard. The man sounded almost sympathetic. If this was the killer's voice, he didn't sound like a raving maniac. Not that the tone of a voice can indicate the motive of a suspect, but Archie had somehow expected a hardness in the voice. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number of Nick Stokes' beeper.

* * *

The Tailor's Shoppe at the Monaco Hotel and Casino was housed in the posh gallery of exclusive shops that sat between the hotel tower and the main casino floor. The manager on duty when Warrick and Sara arrived with the warrant for information was Mr. Levet.

"We always use numbers to help us identify the items we work on," Mr. Levet explained as he typed the number from the suit coat into the shop's customer database. "It's the only way to keep track of our customers."

The computer beeped to tell the searcher the requested information was found. Mr. Levet punched another key on the keyboard and was rewarded with the complete customer profile of the owner of the suit in question. "That suit was fitted for a Mr. Joseph Durant," the manager informed the investigators.

"When was the work done?" Warrick asked.

The manager consulted the computer screen again. "That suit was picked up January 17th, this year."

"Almost four months ago," Warrick said, half under his breath.

"Mr. Durant was a good customer," Mr. Levet attested. "We've done several suits for him."

This was good news. Warrick asked the question both CSIs wanted an answer to. "When was the last time he was in here?"

Mr. Levet gave the computer screen another quick glance. "March 26th. He dropped off a suit with us, but he hasn't returned to claim it or pay for the work."

"Do you have an address for Mr. Durant?" Sara wanted to know.

The shop's records had a complete address and phone number for the customer. The manager gave the complete information to the CSIs. After leaving the shop, they headed back to their vehicle and discussed what to do next.

"We might be able to find dental records for Joseph Durant," Sara offered. "His address is in Henderson. If he's lived in the area for a while, he might even be in the local dental database."

"Yeah," Warrick agreed. "We should give Doc Robbins a heads up."

Sara looked at her partner questioningly as they walked. There was something else going on in Warrick's head, she was sure of it. Grabbing hold of his arm, she pulled them both up short.

"What's going on?" Sara asked, searching Warrick's face. "You know something else about this guy, don't you?"

Taking a moment to answer, Warrick worked his memory. "I think I remember that name from somewhere," he told her.

"Our vic?" Sara said. "Joseph Durant?"

Warrick nodded. "I just can't seem to place him yet." He started to move again and Sara followed him. "I'll remember, though," Warrick reassured her. "I always do."

"What, so you're part elephant now?" Sara joked.

Warrick's only response was a half-laugh.


	29. Chapter 29

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 29  
by Cheers

Without much effort, David Hodges had managed to identify the tire treads from the casts Stokes had taken behind the Albertson's as Firestone P235/75R15 Wilderness AT Truck tires. These were the same tires that were the subject of a massive recall in August 2000. Someone hadn't been paying very close attention when the warnings about this tire went out. The fact that the tire was still on the road irked Hodges. His findings meant that some yahoo was out there driving around on unsafe treads and they could cause a severe accident because of their negligence in not getting the tires replaced. The way things worked in this world, the owner of the tires probably wouldn't die but some innocent in another car involved in the accident caused by their apathy would. With Hodges' luck, he figured that innocent would in all likelihood be him.

Still mulling over the possibility of his eventual death-by-consumer-negligence, Hodges made an exhaustive list of all the makes and models of vehicles that came with the Wilderness AT standard. After adding this information to his final report, he headed out to find the only person he really wanted to give the results to - one Gil Grissom.

* * *

The sun was only now beginning to set. Robin was at play this evening, but she wasn't alone. The young girl was playing in the same sandbox where he had first discovered her only now there were two other children with her. One of the other kids was a boy and older, perhaps twelve. Obviously ignoring the play of the two younger girls, the boy busied himself with making a fortress out of sand and staging a massive armed battle.

Winding the dog's leash tighter around his hand, he cut up a footpath well before the sandbox and headed up a knoll where he could sit and observe the children. Perhaps, like two days ago, Robin would be last to go home tonight.

* * *

Nick Stokes entered the Crime Lab with a bag of evidence gathered from the Danbridge house and a beeper message from Archie. He was headed up the hallway toward the evidence room where he could get his carpet fiber samples logged in when he spotted Hodges heading his way.

"Hey, Hodges!" Nick called.

David Hodges heard his name and saw Stokes at almost the same moment. His displeasure at seeing the junior investigator was apparent. Checking his movement up the corridor, Hodges waited for Stokes to come to him.

Seeing the lab technician stop, Nick walked quickly to close the gap between them. "How's it going, Hodges?" Nick asked good-naturedly.

"How does it look like I'm doing?" Hodges replied snidely.

Nick stared at the lab tech for a moment, trying to understand why the man was so perpetually ill-tempered. Finally, he shook his head. No use wasting time trying to figure out the inexplicable, he decided. "Whatever, man," Nick said. "I called to you to see if you've finished the tire tread analysis I sent you."

Hodges briefly glanced at the file folder he was carrying and then back at the junior investigator. Nick noted the reaction and knew right away the lab tech was carrying the results.

"I was just headed to Grissom's office with something important," Hodges dodged. "Can I get back to you on that?"

The fact that Hodges didn't answer his question directly also struck Nick. Man, this guy was a piece of work. There was very little about David Hodges that Nick liked, but Hodges was a good tech. As a lab technician, Hodges did provide accurate analyses and was pretty speedy about it. Since that was the man's job, Nick felt he had to respect the ability. However, it hadn't taken long for the CSIs on the night shift to realize that there was almost nothing about _them_ that Hodges respected. That just plain pissed Nick off. Thinking quickly, Nick did that last thing Hodges would expect him to do.

Stepping up next to the lab tech and placing his arm around the man's shoulders, Nick gave Hodges one of his most jovial looks. "How long have you been here, Hodges?" the CSI asked pleasantly.

With a more-than-usually-suspicious sidelong look, Hodges responded, "Five months, next Thursday."

"Has it really been that long?" Nick responded thoughtfully.

"Why?" the lab tech wanted to know.

The CSI gave Hodges a friendly and sympathetic look that belied the strength used to tighten his grip around the lab technician's upper back. "I think it stinks that you've been at this lab for that long and no one's explained how we do things around here." Nick gave Hodge's shoulder a not too friendly squeeze for emphasis and began to propel him down the hall. "You see this assignment board down here?" Nick said as they came to the end of the corridor and entered the foyer of the back entrance to the building. He nodded to the board, never easing up on his viselike hold. "This board lists all the current open cases and the primary investigator assigned to each case." Nick looked at the lab tech with nothing but the most cordial of expressions. "And you see that case right there?" He pointed with his free hand to the Danbridge case file number listed on the board. "That file number is the same number as the one on the folder you're holding. And see the name of the primary investigator assigned to that case?"

Hodges was beginning to squirm.

"Why, that would be my name," Nick continued. He gave the lab tech's shoulder another firm squeeze before finishing. "You see Hodges, the way things work in this lab is that ALL lab reports on each case go to the primary investigator for that case. So, I think that you must have been mistaken about wanting to give that report to Grissom. You probably meant you wanted to give it to the primary - me. Isn't that right?"

With a burst of effort, Hodges broke away from Nick's grip and moved a pace away before stopping. "I … ah …."

Quick as a cat, Nick stepped up and snatched the folder deftly out of Hodges' hand. "Thanks for the report, man" Nick said as he walked past the dazed technician and moved back up the hall. With the tire tread analysis report in hand and a self-satisfied grin on his face, Nick wished he could read minds right about now.

* * *

Catherine Willows met Doc Robbins in the autopsy bay, the autopsy table currently devoid of any of the normal unmoving clientele common to the place. Al Robbins was finishing up autopsy notes on some previous cases when the blonde CSI entered.

"What's up, Doc?" Catherine said as she pushed through the door. Robbins gave her an 'aren't you clever' look that made Catherine's grin spread even wider. "Not too original, huh?" she offered.

"Absolutely," Robbins replied. "Never heard that before in my life. But, from you it's music to my bilateral cochleae."

Catherine stepped up next to the doctor. "I bet you say that to all of the girls," she teased.

"Just the live ones," he retorted without missing a beat. The small smile on his face told her the doctor was enjoying their banter as much as she was. It was one of the things he enjoyed about his job. Medical examiners didn't often get to choose the people with whom they worked. Robbins was lucky to be associated with this crime lab and this night shift team. After a moment, Robbins asked the obvious question. "So what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Warrick and Sara have a possible name for our storage unit shooting victim," Catherine told the coroner. "I was hoping we could find some dental records and do an odontological comparison. Maybe get a positive ID."

Robbins nodded. "Give me his name and I'll see what I can turn up."

Catherine smiled again, "Wow, wit, charm, AND service."

"We're a one-stop shop," the doctor said.

"Yeah," Catherine agreed, "the last stop."


	30. Chapter 30

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 30  
by Cheers

All three children went back home together. He watched them go as the last of the neighborhood porch lights came on.

The ache in his groin spoke to him of his disappointment at not being able to fulfill his own need. She would do very nicely. He would wait. He would be patient. He was prepared. Everything would work out perfectly this time.

All he needed was a chance, an opening. Sooner or later, she would help him walk his dog. And then she would provide him with the pleasure and release he longed for.

* * *

"You actually told Ecklie that?" Sara asked, laughing at Catherine's account of her conversation with the day shift supervisor. Warrick grinned as well. Grissom was trying hard to ignore her.

"You bet," Catherine confirmed, taking another bite.

Jim Brass smiled as he listened. He had no particular love for the day shift CSI head cheese either. He sat in the conference room at CSI and chewed on his latest slice of pizza. Several pizzas, all with multiple slices missing and still in their respective boxes, occupied the center of the table along with paper plates, cans, utensils, and coffee mugs. Seated around the table with him were the regular suspects save one.

"Where's Nick?" Brass asked. "He's not going to get any of this pizza if he doesn't get his butt in here."

Gil Grissom looked up from the notes he was pretending to read. "He's in the AV Lab," he informed the detective. "He and Archie have been working on the anonymous 911 call."

"That's the call that led to the girl's body, right?" Catherine inquired.

"Yeah," Jim said. He made it a point not to mention Detective Paulson's name. The young cop wasn't exactly on the A-list of detectives with this particular group of criminalists.

Sara, Warrick, and Catherine all looked at Gil after Brass's reply. If Grissom was aware of the conspicuous absence of the mention of Detective Paulson, he didn't show it. Instead, he steered the conversation into much more productive territory.

"So where are we on the storage unit case?"

"Doc Robbins is working on a dental ID now, and we're waiting for the ballistics report on the fragment he retrieved from the victim," Catherine said. "The name Sara and Warrick got from the tailor shop manager turned up on the dental database. If the vic is Joseph Durant, we should know pretty soon."

Brass finished chewing his latest bite of pizza and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "A records check turned up a few moving violations, but that's about it. Seems our guy was a model citizen. Now his father," Jim added, "that's a different story."

Gil raised an eyebrow. "His father?"

"Joe 'Deke' Durant," Brass said. "Hit man for the mob. Worked for Old Man Murphy at the Monaco before Carlo Benedetti bought the resort."

"That's where I've heard the name before," Warrick exclaimed, recognizing the reference. Sara looked at him. "Deke Durant. He's a legend."

"A legend?" Sara said questioningly.

"Yeah," Warrick continued. "He worked for the casino pit bosses as a shill, caught the gamblers who'd try to cheat the house. Instead of just blacklisting the player, though, he'd make sure they wouldn't come back - ever."

"That's what the word 'deke' means," Gil offered, "to deceive or fake out an opposing team."

"And eliminate the competition," Catherine added.

"What's interesting," Sara said, "is that our vic frequented the same casino where his father worked but, according to casino records, he didn't work there himself."

Brass shrugged. "I'm surprised junior would go there at all, considering how his father died."

"Oh?" Grissom said, obviously interested in this little Las Vegas history lesson.

Warrick surprised the group by speaking up. "Story is that he was killed by Russell DiMarco, pit boss for Old Man Murphy. Durant caught DiMarco trying to cheat the house by running a scam of his own. Deke had orders not to kill him. Murphy wanted everyone in Vegas to know about DiMarco, so he had him blacklisted from all the casinos in town. There's nothing more humiliating for a pit boss than to get caught with your hand in the pot."

Warrick stopped and took a sip of his soft drink.

"So," Sara said impatiently when Warrick paused. "How did Durant die?"

"DiMarco shot him," Warrick informed them. "I guess he was angry at Durant for catching him and telling Old Man Murphy."

"And," Brass added, "DiMarco got the death penalty for it."

"Wow," said Catherine.

"So," Grissom interjected, gathering everyone's attention. "What do we do next?"

Sara thought for a brief moment before saying, "If our guy was a regular at the Monaco, maybe some of the pit bosses will know him well enough to give us some hints about whether he was seeing anyone - what his personal habits might have been."

Gil nodded, "At least it's a place to start."

* * *

"Wasn't Grissom at the store at the same time?" Archie asked Nick. They had been listening to the sound that they both believed to be the automatic door opening just before the anonymous caller began to speak.

Nick nodded. "Yeah, he was there, but there are two sets of doors in and out," he informed Archie. "He used the east entrance and the payphones are on the wall just beyond the entrance on the west side. He doesn't remember seeing anyone at the phones and at that distance he couldn't have heard anything."

Archie turned his attention back to the isolated sound again. He was sure that the sound was an automatic door. "Well, it sure sounds like someone was a witness," he insisted.

"Well, no one who works there saw anything. Trying to find whoever might have seen our guy is like trying to find a needle in a haystack." Nick was seated next to Archie and looking at the graphical display of the audio signatures for each track the AV tech had isolated. "Can you play just the voice again?"

"Sure," Archie told the CSI. He cued up the track and they listened as a male voice, now much clearer thanks to Archie's efforts, told the dispatcher that a body could be found behind a store in the city. The voice sounded almost sad.

"You were right about the tone," Nick commented after the track finished playing. "He does sound sympathetic. Almost like he knew … he knew …."

Looking at the CSI, Archie could practically see the wheels turning.

Nick stood up and walked to the large display at the end of the room. "I need a copy of that voice track," he told the AV tech.

"No problem," Archie said. Before he could ask Nick what he was going to do with the recording, the CSI was already headed out of the room.


	31. Chapter 31

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 31  
by Cheers

Nick stuck his head into the conference room for a brief moment. "Grissom?"

Gil looked up at the young investigator expectantly. Nick caught the attention of everyone else in the room as well.

"Hey, man," Warrick said to his colleague, "you want some of this pizza you better claim some, 'cause its going fast and the natives here aren't letting anything out alive."

"Thanks, bro," Nick gave Warrick a slight nod, "but I'm knee deep."

"What do you need, Nicky?" Grissom asked.

Nick looked as his boss. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure," Gil said, rising.

Moving around the table, Grissom stepped through the door as Nick pulled back. The two men headed up the corridor toward Grissom's office. Catherine, Warrick, Sara, and Brass watched through the glass walls as the two men moved away. When they looked back at each other they all wore the same inquisitive expression.

* * *

Bobby Dawson had seen this before. The bullet that Doc Robbins had sent over to Ballistics for analysis was almost complete. It was not all that damaged, either. The bullet's rifling marks weren't in the database, so that was new. But the way this bullet was prepared and fired struck him as old school.

According to Sara, the victim had been shot through the right eye. There wasn't an exit wound. Sara wanted to know how that was possible. How could a bullet fired at point blank range and entering the skull through the small facial bones behind the eye not tear through the victim's cranial vault and produce an exit wound? It was an old trick. Bobbie grinned as he realized what he was looking at.

He put in a page to the case investigators. This was just too good a story to tell only one person.

* * *

"Did you know that over two hundred thousand kids are abducted each year?" Nick asked Grissom as they entered the supervisor's office. Of course Gris knew this, but Nick wanted his boss to know that he knew it.

Grissom nodded as he moved around his desk and sat down in his chair. Nick sat in a chair on the other side of the desk. "And 92 of them are abducted by an estranged parent."

Nick grinned. Leave it to Grissom to know the statistics so well off the top of his head. "Less than one hundred children a year are abducted by strangers."

Grissom looked at the junior investigator. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Where does that get us?"

"What if this guy was someone your neighbor knew?" Nick offered. "What if Mrs. Danbridge could identify him?"

Gil sat forward, obviously thinking. "What? Did you and Archie find something on the 911 call?"

Shaking his head, Nick said, "Nothing specific, but Archie was able to clear the voice track almost completely. The guy didn't try to hide his voice very well," he informed Grissom. "I think the voice would be recognizable to someone who had heard it before."

Grissom thought about that for a moment. "And you want to play the recording for Mrs. Danbridge. See if she recognizes the voice."

Now Nicky was nodding. "Maybe she can give us something." Nick paused before adding. "It's only a matter of time before our guy takes another child and kills again."

Gil looked into the younger man's face. Nicky was learning fast. He was proving to be a very good investigator. Beyond that, Nick was absolutely right. It was only a matter of time. "That's a good idea, Nick," Grissom said. "You should take Detective Paulson with you."

Sensing the junior investigator's hesitation, Gil knew that this hadn't been his intent. "According to Brass," Gil continued, "Paulson is still the detective on the case."

"Yeah," Nick said, obviously not thrilled with the idea, "I know. But..."

Grissom sat back in his chair and gave Nick an expectant look.

"Wouldn't it be better if someone Mrs. Danbridge knows and trusts was there?" Nick offered.

Gil didn't say anything right away. Martha Danbridge may have trusted him at one time, but there was a good chance that might no longer be true, to say nothing of what other members of her family thought. As if to prove his point, Gil worked his lower jaw to the left just enough to cause himself a twinge of pain from his injury.

Nick noticed the movement and the wince of pain. Grissom's hesitation was a giveaway as well. "About that," Nick said. When his boss's expression changed to one of surprise, Nick knew he was on the right track. "I've got a message for you."

* * *

Carl Paulson had spent hours on the computer and had little to show for it except a ridiculously long list and a headache. Stokes had given him good information about the type of vehicle their perp might be driving. According to the crime scene investigator, the carpet fibers found on the victim had come from a recent model Ford produced since 1996 and not from a luxury line automobile. The P235/75R15 Wilderness AT tires were standard equipment on Ford Explorers, Ford Rangers, and Mercury Mountaineers produced between 1991 and 1998. That left a list of vehicles manufactured by Ford Motor Company between 1996 and 1998 that was either an Explorer, a Ranger, or a Mountaineer. The number of vehicles registered in the state of Nevada that matched that description topped 600. Over 450 of those were in Las Vegas alone.

Sitting back in his chair, Paulson closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side in order to ease the stiffness in his neck. When he opened his eyes again, he caught sight of his notepad. On it was the name of Blaine McCallister. Paulson sat up straight again.

The lady had seen a man walking a dog with the same fur color as the animal hairs found on the victim. Carl thought about that for a second. He was walking a dog. In the city. Walking the dog … in the city.

"Vegas has licensing laws," he said out loud. "Dog licenses."

His fingers flew over the keyboard as he entered another search. What if their killer was a good pet owner and had registered his dog?


	32. Chapter 32

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 32  
by Cheers

Gil Grissom had completed the preliminary entomological analysis of the We-Store-It homicide crime scene. According to his calculations, the victim found in unit 71 had been dead for eighteen to twenty days. He signed the report and dropped it into a file folder labeled with the case number. Grabbing his coat, Gil headed to meet Nick in the parking lot. He would drop the report off at the front desk with instructions to make sure that it got to Catherine, Warrick, or Sara as soon as possible.

* * *

"You're kidding," Sara told Bobby Dawson.

"Nope," Bobby said, smiling and chewing on his ever-present gum.

"No powder rounds?" Warrick said incredulously.

"Aguila .22 super Colibri - super quiet ammo that doesn't contain gun powder, fires from the force of the primer only," Bobby told the CSIs.

Catherine nodded her understanding. "Old school. Powerful and nearly silent," she said, "great for use in the city."

The assessment got the approval of the Ballistics tech. "And with a velocity of only 500 feet per second at the muzzle, the bullet wouldn't provide enough of a recoil to function in most semi-automatics. You're probably looking for a .22 caliber rimfire handgun with a long barrel."

With thanks given all around to Bobby, the CSIs moved to go. Bobby stopped Sara as she was walking out the door. "Great news about Grissom, isn't it?"

Sara looked back at the tech. "Yeah," she said, smiling wholeheartedly. "It is."

* * *

One of the good things about police work in Vegas was that the city never slept. There were always witnesses who where awake at four in the morning that a police officer and a few CSIs could talk to. This was the case at the Monaco Casino when Jim Brass, Catherine, Warrick, and Sara arrived to talk with the management.

Doc Robbins had called to report that their John Doe had finally been positively identified as Joseph Durant, Jr.. After coming up with next to nothing on the records check, Brass had requested a full background check on their victim. What they found was very interesting. Durant had reported his occupation to the IRS as a gambler. His reported earnings for the past two years topped seventy grand. That made him a good gambler. Since the victim had his suits tailored at the Monaco, Brass was betting that he did the lion's share of his gambling there as well. Catherine agreed.

Splitting up into two teams, the three CSIs and the one homicide detective set out to question the night shift pit bosses and dealers at the moderate to high stakes tables. This is where Durant would have seen most of his action, Warrick suggested.

It didn't take long for Warrick and Catherine to discover that Durant liked to play blackjack and that he liked the single-deck moderate stakes tables. "Probably counted cards," Warrick offered. And since counting cards wasn't illegal if the math was done mentally, a gambler could do well if he played smart. This was something Warrick understood very well.

Brass and Sara spoke with the pit bosses. The lead pit boss on nights was Robert Gamez.

"So he was a regular here," Brass said.

Gamez nodded. "Sure, we knew Joe around here. He was a good player, smart. He made some bucks."

"Did he have any trouble here?" Sara wanted to know. "Have problems with any of the dealers, cocktail waitresses, security personnel?"

The pit boss hesitated for a moment. "Come to think of it," he said thoughtfully, "there was an incident about a month ago."

Sara and Brass exchanged looks.

"What kind of 'incident'?" Jim Brass asked.

* * *

Nick hit the stop button on the mini-recorder and the sound of the man's voice stopped. It was obvious that Martha Danbridge was too emotional to go on right at that moment. Cheryl Danbridge buried her face in her husband's shoulder as Ron held her. The voice of the man who may have killed Shelly seemed to hang in the air even after the recording was stopped. The only sounds for several moments were the muffled noises of the women weeping.

"I'm sorry to have to ask this," Gil said softly, looking at Martha Danbridge with compassion. "But it would really help us if you could remember if you've ever heard this voice before."

Martha looked up at her neighbor with tear-soaked eyes. The horror of hearing the recording was clearly evident in her face. "I don't know if I can," she told Grissom.

"I need you to try, Mrs. Danbridge," Gil said gently but firmly. "We wouldn't be asking if it weren't important."

As she did the night Shelly was lost, Mrs. Danbridge reached out to take hold of Grissom's hand. What they were asking for would be difficult to get even from someone who was a stranger to Shelly. Gil was beginning to understand how hard this whole thing had been on his neighbor. Suddenly, the prospect of possibly being fired from his job didn't seem like such a terrible loss. What the Danbridges had suffered was so much more horrible that it made Gil feel ashamed.

"Please try, Mrs. Danbridge," Carl Paulson encouraged. Nick gave Paulson a stern look. Grissom ignored the detective.

After another moment, Martha nodded her head very slightly. "For Shelly," she whispered heavily. "I'll try for her."

"Thank you," Gil told her. He nodded to Nick, who pushed the play button once more.

Ron Danbridge listened to the voice and hugged his wife as if he were holding on to a life preserver. He would find a way to kill the owner of that voice.

* * *

The sun was rising over the eastern hills of the Las Vegas valley. The colored glass of the Las Vegas strip resorts glinted in the sunlight. He drove the highway through the center of the valley quickly. The glimmer of the colors - red, green, purple, gold - went completely unnoticed. He had other things to think about. Promising things. Exciting things.

Today would be the day, and this time nothing would go wrong. Today he would have her.


	33. Chapter 33

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 33  
by Cheers

"I'm sorry," Martha Danbridge said for the fourth time.

"You tried your best, mom," Ron told his mother gently. Both he and Cheryl gave her an encouraging hug.

"It's all right," Grissom reassured her again. "We just needed to ask."

Mrs. Danbridge nodded and then fell silent. She looked small to Grissom, as if her whole body had somehow shrunk in on itself from the weight of the horrors the world had brought into her life these past few days.

Rising from the couch, Gil thanked Shelly's parents for letting them try the voice recognition. The fact that Martha Danbridge couldn't remember ever hearing the voice didn't mean that she had never seen the man before, only that she may have never had a conversation with him.

Ron walked the investigators to the front door. He paused with his hand on the inside knob. "Dr. Grissom," he began.

Gil knew where this was going and tried to cut him off. "No," he told Shelly's father. "It's okay."

Ron Danbridge forged ahead through Grissom's attempt to interrupt his apology. "I really need to say this," he insisted. "I had no right to jump to conclusions like that. I'm not a violent man, Dr. Grissom. I know there's no reason for you to believe me. What I did to you was inexcusable. I'm very sorry."

Carl Paulson stared at the young father for a moment and then looked at Gil Grissom again. It was obvious to him now that the CSI supervisor had received the injuries to his face at the hands of Mr. Danbridge, who had believed Grissom was Shelly's killer almost solely because of Paulson's accusations.

"Please," Gil was still protesting. "Don't worry about it."

Cheryl moved to stand next to her husband and took his arm. "Please accept our sincerest apologies, Dr. Grissom," she said earnestly.

Looking into the eyes of the young Mrs. Danbridge, Grissom could see that his objections were doing more harm than good. He took a slow deep breath and let it out. Graciousness had never really been a strong suit for him. He was sure his own mother would be horrified. "Alright," he said softly. "Thank you."

Ron Danbridge held out his hand to Grissom. Without hesitation, Gil shook it.

"I'm sure there are many people who owe you an apology, Dr. Grissom," Ron said as he let go of Gil's hand. "I hope your life returns to normal soon."

Nick gave Paulson another hard look. Carl looked down at his shoes.

"Not until we find whoever did this to Shelly," Gil told her parents, determined resolve in his voice.

* * *

Jim Brass hit the end button on his cell phone. "I found us a judge," he informed the three waiting CSIs.

"Do we have an address?" Sara asked.

"Yeah," Brass said. "He lives in an apartment complex on Tenaya."

"West side," Warrick commented.

Catherine grinned. This was the part of the job she loved. "Let's go," she told the group.

* * *

Once the three men were in the corridor outside of the Danbridge home, Carl Paulson stopped the CSIs. "Wait."

Grissom gave the detective an expectant look. Nick's look wasn't as generous.

Paulson knew that he would have to tell Gil Grissom that he had made a mistake. He just didn't think that doing so in the middle of an important investigation was appropriate. He also didn't want to do it with an obviously hostile audience. He came to the point quickly. "There is a Blaine McCallister that lives on the first floor here. She says she's seen a man walking a large dark haired dog," Paulson told the CSIs. "Maybe she's talked to him as well? If this is our killer's voice, we might have better luck with her."

"You want to run this voice recording by her as well? You think she might recognize the voice?" Nick asked.

Paulson looked at Grissom with hopefulness that the investigator would live up to his reputation for putting the work first. Carl was not disappointed.

"I know Ms. McCallister," Gil told Nick and the detective. "Let's play the recording for her and see."

In five minutes the three men were standing in Blaine McCallister's living room and she was listening to the recording of the 911 call. Ms. McCallister concentrated on the voice. When the recording ended with the caller hanging up, Blaine asked, "Can you play it again?"

"Sure thing," Nick said. He hit the play button once more and they all listened to the recording again.

By the time the recording ended the second time, Blaine was certain. "That's the guy," she told the investigators.

"What guy?" Grissom asked.

"The guy with the dog," she told them.

* * *

It was nearly 8:30 am when the three CSIs and Jim Brass arrived at the Sun Palms Apartment complex. The leasing office wasn't open yet. Brass was thankful that this wasn't a gated community. Pulling into the parking lot of the complex in two cars, Warrick and Sara in their Tahoe, and Catherine and Brass in his sedan, they pulled into the parking spaces next to the fourth building to the south of the main entrance.

Exiting the driver's side of his car, Brass called to Warrick and Sara as they got out of the SUV. "It's apartment 423. Looks like it might be around the side here."

Warrick nodded and grabbed his field kit before closing his door and following the detective. Sara did the same.

Before the Warrick and Sara could join Brass and Catherine, a squad car pulled into the parking lot and parked next to the Tahoe. Brass nodded to the uniformed officer that stepped out of the radio car. His name was Frank Nobilo.

Subsequent to introductions being made, the group moved up the pathway to apartment 423 and Jim Brass knocked on the door. After a few moments he raised his hand to knock again just as the front door was pulled open.

"Yes?" a man dressed only in pajama bottoms asked.

"Christopher DiMarco?" Jim Brass asked.

"I'm Chris," the man said sleepily.

Brass held out his detective's shield so that Mr. DiMarco could see it. "Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police," he informed the suspect. "We have a warrant to search your apartment."

"A warrant? What's this about?" DiMarco said, the first hints of understanding in his voice.

"We're investigating the disappearance of Joseph Durant," Catherine told the man.

Brass handed DiMarco the search warrant paperwork and took a step into the doorway. "We're here to find out what you might know about it."

* * *

It was Saturday morning so there was no school. As he had expected, children were already at play in the park. He waited until he saw her.

He dropped the leash and pointed. His dog trotted over to the girl.

When she felt the cold touch of the dog's nose on her face, Robin looked up and smiled. "Hello," she said to the dog. Petting the dog made the dog's tail wag even faster.

When he stepped up to retrieve the dog's leash, he smiled down at the little girl. "I see you've found my dog again."

"He gets away a lot, huh?" Robin asked, still petting the pretty dog.

"You want to know what I think? I think he likes you."

That made Robin laugh. She liked the dog, too.

"Would you like to walk my dog?" he asked.

"Could I?" Robin asked excitedly, standing quickly.

"I think he'd like that very much." Handing the leash to the little girl, they set off across the grass of the park together.


	34. Chapter 34

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 34  
by Cheers

He had thought about how it would feel. How it would make him feel. How excited he would be - emotionally, physically, sexually. The warmth of the body next to his, the tightness, the promised release all tumbled through his thoughts. Would it be like before? As welcomed? As freeing? The anticipation caused his mouth to literally water and his heart to beat faster. He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers in nervous repetition.

Thinking about it consumed him as he drove. The small whimpers from the back seat didn't bother him. The sound of his dog panting didn't bother him. The seemingly endless red lights along Industrial Road didn't bother him. His mind was simply somewhere else.

* * *

"Sure, I knew Durant," Christopher DiMarco told Jim Brass in response to the detective's question. While Brass and Catherine sat with the suspect at the dining table, Warrick, Sara, and Officer Nobilo searched the apartment.

"Knew?" Brass said suspiciously. Catherine noticed as well, and met the detective's gaze. "How, exactly, did you know Mr. Durant?" Jim continued.

DiMarco shrugged. "I'm a dealer. Joe was a regular."

Catherine was again struck by the use of the past tense. "A dealer," she said, "at the Monaco."

"Used to work there, yeah," DiMarco said.

Brass nodded. "That's right. You were fired a few months back. Cheating the house I think your boss told us."

Chris looked a bit startled by this last revelation. Catherine noticed and said, "We've already talked to the pit bosses at the Monaco, Mr. DiMarco. We know about the scam you and Mr. Durant were running."

In the living room, Warrick was searching through and under the furniture. DiMarco had placed a fitted cover over the sofa. The CSI laughed to himself. Why bother buying a new one when a cover would do? The charcoal fabric of the sofa cover went all the way to the floor. Pulling the fabric back, Warrick noticed the original patterned upholstery of the sofa. It was Golden Heartland, a perfect match to the recliner in which the victim was found.

As Sara looked through the clothing hanging in the bedroom closet, Officer Nobilo was busy looking through the drawers of a dresser. There was nothing of obvious importance noticeable about the garments in the closet, so Sara began to inspect the walls and floor. Working methodically, she swept her flashlight beam over the surfaces looking for irregularities. She found none. Looking up, Sara aimed the beam of her flashlight at the ceiling.

"Huh," Sara said to herself.

* * *

"There isn't an on-line searchable database," Carl Paulson explained to Grissom. "I have a uniform assigned to pick up the list once it's compiled by the city clerk from the records she keeps on file."

Gil looked at Paulson. "And you think that by cross-checking the list of matching vehicle owners with the list of dog licenses paid for this past year we might find our guy." The two men were seated at Gil's dining table with files opened on the surface. Nick had stepped away from the table a few paces and was checking in with Conrad Ecklie via cell phone and updating the day shift CSI supervisor about the new developments in the case since, technically, Ecklie was still in charge of the investigation.

"I do," the detective said. "I know it's a long shot," Carl contended, "but short of doing a door-to-door inquiry for a male that fits our criteria, I couldn't think of a better place to start."

Nodding his approval, Gil told Carl, "That's good thinking. He may be on the list. If he's not, though…."

"Right," Nick said into his cell phone as he moved back to the table. Both Grissom and Paulson looked up at the junior CSI. "I'll tell him." Shutting off his phone and sitting back down, Nick met Grissom's expectant gaze.

"So what wisdom did Conrad have to offer?" Gil asked.

"Nothing about our case," Nick informed Grissom. "He's a little pissed that we had Mrs. Danbridge and Ms. McCallister listen to the tape without him here."

Gil grinned slightly, "I don't doubt it."

"He'll get over it," Nick replied, only half as derisively as he felt. "He does think having Ms. McCallister look through the mug shots of known sex offenders is a good idea," he continued. "He's promised to go over and see how she's doing. O'Riley is helping with that at the station as well."

Again Gil nodded. "So, where does that leave us?"

Just as Grissom asked the question, Paulson's cell phone began to ring. "Excuse me," he told the other two men as he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve it.

"Paulson," he said into the phone. The two crime scene investigators waited. "When?" Carl asked, a grave tone in his voice and a facial expression that was pure business. Grissom knew the look and the tone all too well. The initial question was followed by "Where?" and "APB?" as Paulson scrawled notes on his pocket pad. "Fine," the detective said after another few moments. "We'll be right there."

Nick and Grissom exchanged brief looks as Paulson closed his phone. "That was O'Riley," Carl told the investigators. "We've got another missing child."

"What?" Nick said, shocked and alarmed by the news.

"A seven-year-old girl," Paulson repeated the facts. "She was last seen in the park across the street from her home. She was with a man who neighbors say was walking a large black dog."


	35. Chapter 35

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 35  
by Cheers

It took a ladder, flashlight, screwdriver, and a little elbow grease, but in just under ten minutes Sara had managed to open a hole in the ceiling of the bedroom closet that housed a secret small chamber. She had noticed new drywall on the back portion of the closet ceiling - the seam tape had been visible through a coat of new paint. In the chamber Sara found a revolver. This she handed down to Officer Nobilo, who placed it in an evidence bag after making sure there were no bullets in the barrel. Sara also found some ammunition and a file folder with some papers in it.

Taking the evidence she had found, Sara entered the dining area where DiMarco sat across from Jim Brass. "Look what I found," she announced, holding up the evidence bag that held the gun. "It's a .22 caliber."

"Isn't that interesting," Brass said, looking from the CSI to his suspect. "Care to explain that, Mr. DiMarco?"

Chris gave the gun only the briefest of glances before returning his attention to the table top. He had done what was necessary. Let the cops prove what they could prove. He shrugged.

"No, huh," Jim continued. "You know what? That's okay. We'll all just go downtown and see what Ballistics has to tell us." Rising, Brass nodded to Officer Nobilo, indicating it was time to take the suspect into custody.

* * *

Gil Grissom entered the park with purposeful measured strides. Robin Freeman had been abducted by a man who had used a dog as a lure. Shelly Danbridge's body had been covered with dog hair. It was a good bet that the same man was responsible for both abductions. A good bet but by no means a sure bet. This was Vegas and everybody in this town knew there was no such thing as a sure bet.

There was evidence, though. There was always evidence. Grissom would find that evidence. There wasn't going to be another tragedy like the death of his neighbor's granddaughter. Not if it was within his power to prevent it. Gil would do anything to keep this little girl from suffering the same fate as Shelly Danbridge.

Along with several dozen Police Academy cadets, Nick Stokes, and seven of Las Vegas' finest, Grissom ordered the initial sweep of the park to commence. Everyone in the search line began to walk slowly forward, visually scanning the ground before them for any sign or clue that might have been left behind. The hunt for Robin Freeman had begun.

* * *

Bobby Dawson had long since gone home. Ballistics was currently run by Joel Edwards. "Hey Edwards," Warrick said as he and Sara entered. "What do you have for us?"

Joel looked up from the scope he was peering through and smiled. "Hey, Rick, Sara."

Sara smiled back. She had always liked Joel Edwards. He was as friendly as Bobby Dawson but, unlike the Texan, Joel was a Vegas native. He and Warrick had gone to the same high school and had played on the same baseball team. It was kind of cool to have a window into Warrick's childhood. Edwards never seemed to care if his stories embarrassed Warrick. More often than not, they painted Warrick as a normal kid growing up in a city that seemed to be populated with anything but normal people.

Now wasn't the time for school days stories. Joel came straight to it. "What we have here is a Smith and Wesson K-22 Masterpiece. A real nice one, too. Vintage 1947 model. That was the first full year of production of the K-22 series after World War II. This is one sweet item."

"K-22," Warrick said. ".22 caliber long barrel?"

Joel nodded. "Yep."

"Just what Bobby told us we'd be looking for," Sara added.

"What about the ammo?" Warrick asked.

"That's the most interesting thing here," Joel said looking at the cartridges scattered over his work area. "Take a look at the scope."

Warrick did. What he saw made him grin. "Hollow shell casing - no powder rounds."

Joel grinned. "Add a rimfire long barrel pistol and you have yourself a slow velocity projectile that is perfect for your case."

"So you did a test fire?" Sara asked, grinning as she caught the contagious enthusiasm of the Ballistics tech.

"And got a match," Joel informed the CSIs. "You have your murder weapon."

* * *

Blaine McCallister had not been able to identify anyone when she looked through mug shots of known sex offenders. That meant one of two things - their man had never been arrested in Nevada for sexual assault or Ms. McCallister could not clearly identify him. Since her identification of the voice had been so certain, Carl tended to lean toward the former.

Thanks to a call from Sheriff Mobley, who was as upset by the abduction of another Las Vegas child as any politician would be, the listing of all registered dog owners in Las Vegas was finally on Carl Paulson's desk. The list of registered dog owners was thousands of names long. Since he knew they were dealing with a large black lab, Paulson narrowed the list quickly to 2455 names - owners of dogs over 35 pounds. It would take time to search a list of that length and cross-reference it with the list of registered vehicle owners that he had. Enlisting the assistance of Sergeant O'Riley, Paulson set to work.

* * *

The search line had halted. Grissom trotted over to the spot that the cadet indicated. Lying in the grass just three feet away from the parking area was a small plastic purple barrette. The kind a young girl would use to pull back her hair.

After taking a picture of the barrette where it lay, Grissom picked it up with gloved hands and placed it in a clear plastic evidence bag.

Mrs. Freeman waited with Officer May at the other edge of the main grass area on this side of the park. Gil reached them quickly.

Holding the bag up so that the woman could look at it clearly, Grissom asked, "Do you recognize this, Mrs. Freeman?"

The anxious mother responded immediately. "Oh my god," she said, horrified. "That's Robin's. She always puts barrettes in her hair. Purple is her favorite color."

"Are you certain this belongs to your daughter?" Grissom wanted to know.

Mrs. Freeman began to shake as tears poured down her face. "She wore those this morning. I helped her put them in."

The urgency of the situation forced Gil to put aside the emotions he felt. There was no room for that now. "She was wearing another barrette like this one?" Grissom pressed.

The woman nodded. "They come in pairs," she said through her tears. "We bought those at the mall just last week."

"And your daughter was wearing both of them this morning?"

Again Mrs. Freeman nodded.

"Thank you," Grissom said gently. "That's a big help."

As Grissom turned to go back to the search, Mrs. Freeman reached out and took hold of his jacket sleeve. "You're going to find her, aren't you?" the mother pleaded, desperation in her voice. "She's going to be all right?"

Déjà vu overtook Gil as he remembered vividly the face of Martha Danbridge and the promise he had made to her. The image of the dead body of Shelly Danbridge loomed in his mind. He felt his chest tighten. This time he looked into the face of a frantic and grieving woman and told the truth. "I hope so, Mrs. Freeman."


	36. Chapter 36

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 36  
by Cheers

Christopher DiMarco sat in the interrogation room and stared at a different table top. Catherine held the Ballistics report that Warrick and Sara had brought to her as well as the file folder Sara had found along with the gun. The information in the folder was telling, and the Ballistics report was even more so. She was certain that DiMarco was their killer, but there were a few things Catherine still wanted to know. Grissom would have been satisfied just knowing the who and the how of the crime. Catherine was never satisfied until she understood the why. Jim Brass was game enough to give her the chance to find out.

"You loved your father, didn't you?" Catherine asked DiMarco.

Chris looked up at the CSI. "Sure," he said calmly. "Doesn't everybody?"

Catherine shrugged.

In the observation room, Sara and Warrick exchanged looks.

"Is that why you followed in your old man's footsteps?" Brass asked.

DiMarco looked at the detective without answering for a moment. These people didn't understand and he wasn't sure they ever would. Chris was sure that the evidence that lady had proved what he had done. Maybe now was the time to tell them why. "My father was a good man," Chris finally said.

"But not good enough to keep from getting caught?" Brass suggested.

Chris's expression became resentful. "Do you know how hard it was for me to get a job in this town being the son of Russell DiMarco?"

"You managed to work for the same casino that your dad worked at," Catherine told him.

"Only after I got a revisionist history lesson from Old Man Murphy," DiMarco said bitterly. "He hired me the year he sold out. I had to sit there and listen to him tell me lies about my father. I had to promise never to be like him."

"But you are just like him, right?" Jim asked.

"You don't know jack shit," Chris spat out.

"What did your father tell you about why he was fired, Chris?" Catherine asked softly. She opened the file folder taken from DiMarco's apartment. Inside there were some letters and numerous news clippings. All referred to the gaming commission's investigation of skimming at the Monaco, and were written in the months preceding the day Russell DiMarco had shot and killed Deke Durant. "Your father wasn't running a scam on the casino was he?"

DiMarco looked away from the detective. "No," he said more calmly. "He was working for the government."

"That's what these news clippings were about," Catherine said. "Your father was helping the gaming commission prove corruption in the casino."

Chris nodded slightly. "And look where it got him."

"Why didn't he just tell the casino owners who he was working for?" Catherine asked.

That brought a hollow laugh from the suspect. "In mob-run Vegas? How long do you think he would have lived if he had said something like that?"

"Not long," Warrick muttered. Watching, he and Sara were fascinated by the story being related in the room on the other side of the one-way glass.

Catherine knew Chris was right. In old Vegas, Russell DiMarco would have simply disappeared. Working for the government in an investigation didn't guarantee squat then and guaranteed little more now.

Jim Brass leaned back in his chair. "That gun we found in your apartment is a nice piece."

"It was my father's," DiMarco said almost off-handedly.

"You found out who Joe Durant was, didn't you?" Catherine asked. "You found out he was Deke Durant's son."

"It's not that simple," Chris said.

"Why don't you explain it us," Brass suggested.

"He told me who he was," DiMarco said. "Joe would sit at my table and talk about the crimes he said my father had committed. He told me that my father had murdered his father."

"You didn't know?" Catherine asked.

"Not the whole story," Chris said. "I was really little when my father went to prison. My mother didn't let me visit him. All I have are the letters he sent to her and the newspaper articles my mother cut out and saved."

"That's what's in this file," Catherine offered.

Again Chris nodded. "I didn't find that file until after my mother died last year."

"Then a man claiming to be Deke Durant's son starts showing up at the casino and sitting down at the tables that you were dealing at?" she asked.

"He would look for me. Sit down when the table was empty. Say things. Accuse my father of things," Chris stared at the table top as he spoke. "I made copies of the information I had and gave it to him. He just kept at me. I asked the pit boss to keep him away from my table. Durant complained."

"What finally happened, Chris?" Brass asked. "What made you kill him?"

Chris looked up at that. "Isn't it obvious?"

Catherine understood. Finally she had her why. "When he realized he wasn't getting to you with the words, that you didn't believe him, he accused you of cheating the casino. The management fired you based on Durant's account."

Chris didn't react. He continued to stare at the table top.

"Durant did to you what his father had done," Catherine continued. "So you figured the best way to deal with it was to do the same thing your father did. You shot him."

In the observation room, Sara looked at Warrick, slightly stunned. "The more things change," she said.

"I know," Warrick replied, equally surprised by the revelations they had heard. "The more they stay the same."

"Vendetta?" Brass asked

"Justice," Chris said evenly.

* * *

Whether it was skill, intervention from the gods, or just plain luck, Carl Paulson would never quite know. After just over an hour of searching, he and O'Riley had found a hit on their list. Running the name, they came up with an address just four blocks from Grissom's condominium complex.

Paulson dialed Grissom's cell phone and waited for an answer. After three rings he was rewarded with "Grissom."

"This is Paulson. I think we may have found him."


	37. Chapter 37

**Warning**: This portion of the story contains graphic material/difficult subject matter.

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 37  
by Cheers

Nick Stokes pulled up his Tahoe in front of a very modest single-story house. Gil Grissom got out of the passenger side immediately. Carl Paulson and Ray O'Riley were already there. A police cruiser was parked around the corner and down a few doors.

Parked in the driveway of the home was a 1998 Ford Explorer. O'Riley was looking through the front window of the driver's side. Nick moved to the passenger side and turned his flashlight on to look through the window on that side. The interior was tan.

"Find anything yet?" Nick asked the sergeant.

"Just got here," O'Riley told him.

On the floorboard of the Explorer, Nick spotted a kid's meal box from a local fast food restaurant. "There's a happy meal box in there," he said. "Do we know if this guy has any kids?"

"According to his records, he's never been married," Paulson informed him. "No mention of dependents either."

"These are brand new tires," Grissom said. He had been inspecting the rear of the vehicle and was crouched down at the driver's side rear bumper. He stood and moved to look at the tires on the passenger side. "All the way 'round."

"Getting rid of evidence?" Nick offered.

"Maybe," Gil said as he moved to stand next to Nick and look through the passenger windows. There wasn't much more to be seen from outside the vehicle. "And maybe he'll be willing to let us have a look inside."

"Don't hold your breath," O'Riley said dryly.

After the uniform had joined them, the group of men split up with O'Riley and the uniform moving to the side of the house while Grissom, Paulson, and Nick headed for the front door. Nick carried his field kit. He noticed that Grissom was conspicuously without his.

* * *

Taking her had been exhilarating. His preparations had paid off and she now lay quiet but breathing. The softest of whimpers had been the only sound she made. He had climaxed and the thrill of the memory of that moment still filled him when he heard the doorbell.

At the sound of the bell his dog began to bark. Looking to make sure she had not regained consciousness, he rose quickly and closed the door to the room. He followed the dog to the front door.

* * *

The front door opened fully to reveal a man and a large black lab.

"Hello," the man said, looking down at his dog who barked once more and then simply stood at the man's side and wagged his tail enthusiastically.

"Ben Curtis?" Paulson asked.

"Yes," Curtis said. "That's my name."

"I'm Detective Paulson, Las Vegas Police and this is Dr. Grissom and Nick Stokes. They're with Criminalistics. Do you own the Ford Explorer in the driveway?"

Curtis hesitated for a moment. The arrival of the police had not been a part of his plan for the day. He was even more surprised to be face-to-face with the man reporters had been saying for days was guilty of the death. Resisting the urge to look over his shoulder and make sure the door to the back bedroom was shut, Ben bent down to pet his dog. "Yes, it's mine."

"Do you mind if we take a look inside it?" Nick asked.

Gil Grissom looked past the man in front of him to the portion of the house he could see from the front stoop. The interior of this particular house was as modest as the exterior. Simple furnishings sat in predictable places in the living room. The carpet was beige in color. In the middle of a hallway that led from the front living area to the back of the house, Gil spotted something.

"What's this about?" Curtis was asking.

"What's that?" Grissom asked.

Everyone looked at him. Grissom paid no attention to any of them. His eyes were fixed on the item he saw in the hallway. Without looking away, Gil pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and held it up. He looked from the plastic barrette in the bag to what looked like an identical barrette lying on the floor.

Ben Curtis followed the criminalist's gaze and saw the barrette as well. He went pale.

"She's here," Grissom said.

Curtis moved to close the door on the men but Grissom was too fast. With a speed that surprised everyone, Gil reached forward and pulled Curtis out of the door and backed him into the wall on the side of the front porch.

"You have her here don't you!" Grissom nearly snarled.

Curtis stared at Grissom with stunned eyes.

"What have you done with her?" Gil demanded, slamming the man's shoulders against the wall again.

Carl Paulson spotted the barrette as soon as Grissom pulled Curtis out of the doorway. Curtis' dog began to bark again, excited by the sudden commotion. Stepping through the doorway into the house, Paulson began to call, "Robin? Are you in here? Robin!"

Nick followed Paulson into the house and moved to the barrette. It was an identical match to the plastic barrette that had been found in the park. Careful not to disturb it, he moved up the hall and looked through the opened door on the right-hand side. It was an empty bathroom.

Paulson moved into the kitchen. He was talking on his phone to O'Riley who was still outside with the uniform. "We're inside," Paulson informed the sergeant. "Grissom has the suspect at the front."

"Got it," O'Riley said. He headed back to the front of the house with the uniform in tow.

"She better be unharmed," Gil hissed dangerously, his anger taking almost complete control now. His grip on Curtis' shirt was so tight that the man had to push himself up on tiptoes to keep from be choked by his own clothing.

Nick reached the open door to the front bedroom and looked inside. The room appeared to be empty as well. Moving quickly, he stepped up to the closed door of the back bedroom. Setting his kit down on the floor, he turned the knob on the door and pushed the door open.

Paulson continued through the kitchen and opened the door to the attached garage. Just as he was about to step through he heard the shout.

"I'VE GOT HER!" Nick yelled.

"You son of a bitch," Gil told Curtis. Filled with rage, he pulled his arm back to hit him when Ray O'Riley grabbed it. The sergeant outweighed Grissom by at least fifty pounds and was able to keep the blow from landing. Nothing less would have spared Ben Curtis.

Robin Freeman lay nude and unconscious on the bed. She was gagged. Her hands were bound and she was bleeding vaginally as well as from a small cut on her left cheek. Checking for a pulse, Nick held his own breath until he felt the faint pounding of the little girl's pulse against the fingers he pressed to her neck. She was breathing.

"SHE'S ALIVE!" Nick shouted. "CALL E-M-S!"

Paulson was already talking with dispatch as he ran into the room. Nick pulled his jacket off and covered Robin with it. He began to work at loosening the gag that filled the little girl's mouth.

"She's breathing," Paulson was saying into his cell phone.

Ben Curtis was cuffed by the uniformed officer while O'Riley kept guard over the enraged CSI. Ray could never remember a time when he had seen Grissom lose control that way. He was fairly certain no one had.


	38. Chapter 38

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 38  
by Cheers

Paulson sat across the table from Ben Curtis in the interrogation room. Sitting next to him was Nick Stokes. Nick carefully laid out the evidence he had gathered to prove the county's case against the suspect. The trash bags found under the man's kitchen sink were consistent with the bag that was used to dump Shelly Danbridge's body. The hairs collected from his dog were consistent with the dog hairs found on the body. The carpet fibers from his car and his home matched the fibers found on both victims' clothing. A receipt they found led them to the shop where he had purchased the new tires. A mechanic at the shop remembered that Curtis still had the old recalled tires on his Explorer and that Curtis had not wanted to put the paperwork through for the recall refund because it would take time. Blaine McCallister positively identified him as the man she saw walking his dog near the building in the days leading up to Shelly Danbridge's disappearance. The audio technician was able to make an 80 match of his voice with that of the 911 call.

Most importantly, Robin Freeman had been found in his home. She had been assaulted in the same way that Shelly Danbridge had been. The barrette lying in plain sight had given them all the probable cause they needed to search for and find Robin.

Gil Grissom watched the interview from the confines of the observation room. He had been ordered to keep his distance from this particular suspect. Seeing Ben Curtis sitting in a chair, healthy and with a remorseless look on his face made Gil glad there was a wall between them. His anger still burned red hot.

"Are there other missing girls that you can tell us about?" Carl Paulson asked Curtis.

Ben Curtis looked placidly back at the detective. "None that I'm willing to discuss."

"There's not a jury in Nevada that won't give you the death penalty for what you did to these girls," Nick said. "Man, the only hope you have of saving your life is to cooperate."

"Nick's right."

Gil looked up to find Sheriff Mobley standing beside him in the observation room. It was the Sheriff who had spoken to him.

"He'll get the death penalty," Mobley continued.

"'These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder.'" Gil quoted.

"Shakespeare?"

Grissom nodded. "Killing him won't bring Shelly Danbridge back," he observed bitterly.

"But a justice will be served," Mobley offered.

Gil didn't say anything right away.

In the interrogation room, Ben Curtis was smug. "If you kill me, you'll never know about the others," he told his interrogators.

"I'm not sure there is justice enough for him," Gil said.

* * *

It was nearly a week later before Grissom was allowed back on duty. The Sheriff had forced him to take a few days off to cool down. It wasn't a formal suspension, but it felt the same to Gil.

Robin Freeman had been released from the hospital that morning. The news media in Las Vegas had kept close tabs on the girl's status and reported several times each day on her progress.

Martha, Ron and Cheryl Danbridge had left to take Shelly's body back to Ohio for burial. Before leaving they had made a point to apologize to Grissom again. They also thanked him for helping to find her killer.

Carl Paulson had stopped by to apologize to him as well. Grissom was certain that he had Jim Brass to thank for that. Still, Paulson had the makings of a good detective. Paulson had found several small clues and quickly pieced together a workable theory as to what may have happened to Shelly Danbridge. Grissom gave him points for his deductive abilities even if the detective was way off base. Being wrong was often how one eventually got to being right. Paulson did help the investigation, and it was his hunch that had led to the discovery of Robin Freeman. That little girl had Paulson to thank for her life, and Gil told the detective that.

The incident with Curtis was the closest Gil had ever come to taking his rage out on a suspect. The fact that he could get that angry surprised him a little. He had always had a temper but had always been able to control it. Grissom was discovering that there were depths of emotion inside of him that he hadn't been aware of. So, for that matter, was everyone else. That was perhaps the most awkward aspect of the whole situation.

As with everything else about this case, Grissom's near assault on Curtis had passed into legend more quickly than the facts could be distributed. Employees at the lab spent a great deal of time whispering to each other as soon as they spotted him. The more timid among them went to great lengths to not be caught in the same corridor with him. It would be some time before things returned to normal.

At least that wasn't true for the wounds to his face. By the time he returned to the lab, most of the visible marks had disappeared.

As the shift wore on, Grissom became aware that the discomfort evident in most of the lab staff was completely absent in his CSI team. Catherine, Warrick, Nick, and Sara all seemed perfectly comfortable around him. Greg Saunders and Bobby Dawson were their usual selves, pleasantly goofy and pleasantly amiable respectively.

By the end of the shift, Grissom was feeling pretty good about being back in full swing again. He entered the Break Room looking for Nick and found him. He also found his other three CSIs.

"You ready, Nick?" Gil asked.

"Yeah, boss," Nick said rising. "Just one thing before we go."

"Where are you two going?" Catherine asked, her curiosity bringing her to the question just seconds before Sara or Warrick could ask the same thing.

"I'm taking Nick out for breakfast," Gil told her matter-of-factly.

"Without asking any of us?" Sara asked, half-hurt.

Warrick grinned at her. "We're not special enough today."

"It's just my way of saying thank you," Grissom said. Turning to Nick he asked, "What's the one thing?"

Nick smiled. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind my inviting someone to join us."

Gil gave Nick a lopsided grin. "Who'd you have in mind?"

"A jealous bunch of petty-minded CSIs," Nick said, spreading his arms to indicate the present company.

"Hey!" Catherine protested. "Be careful there."

"Yeah," Sara said smiling. "We resemble that remark."

Warrick stood up and headed for the doorway where Grissom stood, "And you're buying for all of us, right Gris?"

"If you all promise to order from the kid's menu," Gil said.

Catherine stepped up next him and tapped him on the shoulder with the back of her hand before heading out the door. "In your dreams."

"There's a steak with my name on it," Nick said as he walked out and down the hallway.

"Got that right," Warrick said, moving past Grissom to follow Nick.

Sara wasn't far behind. "Vegetable lasagna!"

Grissom was laughing to himself as he scanned the now-empty room.

"Coming?" Catherine said as she poked her head back into the room.

"Yeah," Gil said as he moved to follow her. He really was finding out things about himself and, he now understood, not all of it was bad.


	39. Epilog

I can't complete posting this story without mentioning again how influential and beneficial to this effort my beta-readers have been. This Epilog is the brain child of Allie, who "saw" this scene and shared the idea with me. This ending is really hers. Thank you, Allie.

Janet Kauk has told me repeatedly how surprised she has been that I found her efforts on this project so useful. I don't think I will ever understand why. She has a wonderful grasp of plot and flow, and to a great extent, it is because of her that the characters' voices ring so true. Thank you, Janet.

A big thanks to all the readers of this tale who have taken the time to respond with comments and encouragement. For an amateur writer there can be no greater reward.

Cheers!

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Epilog  
by Cheers

Most of the flowers had withered and died. The stuffed animals had been scattered and some were already fading from the exposure to the desert sun. A simple wooden cross, now tilted to one side, had become the center of the makeshift shrine behind the Albertson's where Shelly's body had been discovered.

Looking around, he found that he was completely alone. Crouching down, he set the cross upright again. Carefully, he gathered the scattered gifts, candles, and cards and rearranged them neatly around the cross. After this was done, he carefully laid the bunch of freshly picked wildflowers he had brought with him in front of the cross.

Gil Grissom stayed there for several moments and stared at the cross. "Flowers are a best thing for a sad heart," she had told him.

No, he told the cross silently. Kindness is a best thing for a sad heart. Shelly's small act of kindness had touched him in a place so deep that he had been startled by the effect. He had carefully walked through his life making sure as few people as possible saw that deep into his soul.

Shelly had been one of the rare few who had seen right through him. With the joyful caring of innocence, she had tried to help. In her way, she had. Maybe more than anyone ever had.

Standing, he put his hands in his pockets.

"Thank you, Shelly," Gil said softly. "I'm going to try not to be sad anymore. I promise."

After another moment, he turned and walked away. This time, he was making a promise he intended to keep.

**Fin**


End file.
